Descent into Darkness
by Vytina
Summary: When life closes one door, it opens another. When life closes all doors, it opens a window. When all the doors and windows are locked up...start breaking them down.
1. Arkham Mornings

Chapter 1 – Arkham Mornings

_The silence weighs heavily upon the building; one would expect for it to be bursting with maniacal laughter, outbursts, and all sorts of other commotion one typically associates with an asylum. But for one reason or another, Arkham is different today. Perhaps it is merely the particular day, or it just as easily could be the usual atmosphere of the place, disproving all the rumors that surround this place's infamous reputation. Of course, if any made the attempt to peel away the layers that wrapped Arkham—more specifically its inmates—and uncover the truth, they might make discoveries that would awe them and warp their methods of thinking._

_But no respectable person will do such a thing._

The pen stopped writing, the steady flow of black ink that marked up nearly the entire page with small, nearly flawless print. The pages were an off-white color, crinkled with both time and the multitude of words smothering the thin, pinched lines; at one point, the pre-printed lines had been a pale but evident gold color, but now after being touched and written upon, they had all but faded entirely into the white pages from which they had been born. The journal was bound with black leather, with a neat gold strap to wrap around the front and back to close it firmly when it was no longer needed. There were three others identical to it resting upon a small dresser located against the adjacent wall, one of them nearly filled, the other two empty for the time, and they would remain so until their owner was finished with their fellow. The dresser upon which they rested was, as stated, small, bearing only three drawers, narrow but deep enough to contain books. Beside the stacked journals, there rested a small ivory-handled brush with a simple design etched into the back, and beside it, nearest to the edge of the dresser, a small bottle of ink-black nail polish and three other pens.

The owner of such simple luxuries was reclining upon the small bed afforded to all inmates of Arkham Asylum. The thin bedclothes had been tucked in neat and uniform; the pillow was propped up against the grey brick to provide minor comfort from the cold stiffness of the wall. The inmate who resided within this cell was a young woman—quite young in fact, barely seventeen years of age. She was by no means a stunning, model-material creature, with a long figure that was not so much slender as it was quite nearly skeletal in nature. Her skin was pale and in certain places, particularly the jutting hip bones, seemed to be drawn firmly over the bones. If one were permitted to survey her naked, they would see not only the grotesquely defined hip bones, but also a chest which, by comparison to the rest of her figure, held the most defined aspect of her body—her breasts. They were by no means voluptuous or striking, but they were of good curves and form for a body so depraved of other details or curves. Her waist was long, turning sharply into narrow hips and long legs that might have been granted to a dancer had they a bit more development to them. A mane of thick black hair spilled down her back, a vivid contrast to the deathly pale of her flesh; over the right side of her long, angular face, her hair was a curtain, hiding whatever secrets she kept hidden beneath. A smooth nose ran down the center of her face, ending gracefully over lips, naturally stained with the bloody hue of dark red; her one exposed eye was a feature that many recalled about her, even if they had met her only once. It was crafted in an angular oval shape, lined with long, thick and dark lashes that cast feathery shadows upon her high-cheekbones with the briefest blink; the iris was a vivid, nearly poisonous hue of blue. Just above this hypnotic feature rested a thin, naturally arched brow, then a brief scope of white forehead before white skin molded with the inky black stain of hair.

The journal rested upon tented knees, pen twirled idly, carelessly between long, spindly, black-tipped fingers. After a long moment, her exposed eye flitting across the page to examine what had been written over the last few hours. She appeared to be satisfied with it, as she closed the journal with a final _clap_, snapping the wrap around the covers to secure it. She set it down upon the dresser, just as the firm clack of a key sliding into the metal door. It opened with a loud, creaky groan.

"Rec time, DeLaine," the guard said. It was a man of large build—not large with muscle, but with less impressive items—with thick, pasty skin and a balding head, "Put your hands—"

"I know the drill," she answered in a cold and undaunted tone, turning around and baring her wrists to the cold metal of his cuffs, which were snapped quickly over her offered limbs. This task did not involve an upward tug of the sleeves of the asylum's uniform, which typically covered over the wrists entirely. Iris DeLaine, however, wore her opinions on her sleeves, quite literally. Less than a week after arriving, she had taken the liberty of altering all of her designated uniforms, taking full-length pants and chopping them up into a pair of shorts that rode high up on her thighs; the once all-covering shirts now sported a hem ending just beneath the bosom; the sleeves were snipped to elbow-length, and the collar had been altered to a distinct V-neck. At least it made her uniforms all too easy to identify from the laundry piles.

The guard shuffled down the hallway, one hand loosely on the young woman's cuffed wrists. All the guards and orderlies knew Iris DeLaine all too well. Fiery, arrogant, cynical…those were typically the words that came to mind when discussing the teenager, but also the comments about how she had nearly immediately flocked to the Rogue Gallery inmates of Arkham, which the other prisoners typically avoided at all and any costs. In her defense, however, DeLaine was also one of the only prisoners who, despite her sharp tongue and stubbornness, was polite and collected when being escorted to and from places in the asylum. As a result, she was the only inmate who had never been sedated, though some guards, who had been the unfortunate victims of her rather quick and impressive right hook, certainly looked for an excuse to stab her with a needle. Their fortune was not even mildly good, however, seeing as she was, for one thing, a favorite of the head psychiatrists in the asylum…but also her attachment to the Rogue Gallery had awarded her certain protection that not even the guards dared to stand up against.

The guard, who's name was Jameson, paused outside the recreation room, whistling quietly as he unlocked the cuffs around her wrists. Apparently, their arrival had been either anticipated or calculated—probably both, come to think of it—for the door opened of its own accord, revealing a woman of about average height with long, thick red hair and luscious green eyes, and a notoriously magnificent figure. Her hand reached out, tugging Iris from the fat hands.

"Thanks, honey," she said rather sarcastically to Jameson, "We've got it from here." With a light, deliberate kick, the metal door fell back in place with a loud _clang_.

The first words spoken once the door closed came from a figure sitting in the nearest corner, one leg folded over the other, a pencil twirling between idle fingers and a newspaper folded deliberately to show the daily crossword puzzle, "You're late," Edward Nygma said without looking up.

"Dunkin' Donuts moves slowly through the halls," Iris replied shortly, stretching her arms over her head, "Sue me for not sprinting here to be subjected to the thrill of your company."

"Iris, play nice with the other kids," a raspy, deep toned voice spoke casually from the couch, where broad shoulders and a duo-colored head could be seen watching the television. The soft whistle of a coin being tossed repeatedly, methodically echoing through the air as he sat on the couch, eyes trained to the television.

"He started it," Iris said, setting a hand briefly to the back edge of the sofa before hoisting herself over the edge and landing with smooth grace on the pale green cushions.

Barely two seconds after she had settled into the corner of the couch, a grey and yellow blur launched into her lap, arms winding around her and squeezing hard enough to make a body-builder pass out from lack of oxygen. Fortunately, her body was all too accustomed to being depraved of air for long periods of time. Her head lowered slightly to look down at the blonde head nestled securely against her chest, arms and legs wound around her to further the embrace.

"Morning, Harley," she said calmly, hand reaching up to pet the needy clown, "Were you watching the clock, waiting for me? Sorry I was so late…" she spoke in a soft coo to the blonde girl, earning a deep purr from the other.

"Oh, so you speak civilly to _her_?" Edward's voice raised in protest from behind them. Iris turned her head with a look in disinterest.

"She's cuter than you," she answered with a cocky smile. Harley beamed, sticking her tongue out at the Riddle Master. Stormy green eyes rolled, a mutter regarding women escaping his grumbling lips before the end of a pencil was secured between them instead. Iris adjusted her position ever so slightly, eyes traveling over to her companion.

"You done with Jeopardy?" she asked, hand reaching out for the remote even before she was granted an answer. The right side of the former district attorney's face curved into a smirk as he handed it to her. She aimed it up slightly, elbow propped up on the arm of the furniture for better direction. The channels skittered across the screen, one right after the other….then suddenly the screen was filled with images of cheering fans, bedecked in purple and gold, howling and waving as players, dressed in the same colors, charged down the green and white field.

"Oh, look, Iris," Ivy smirked, walking over to her, elbows propped up against the back edge of the couch, "Doesn't it bring back such memories?"

"Indeed, and they're making me ill," she said, switching the channel again.

Harley grinned broadly, twirling around in her lap with a squeal, "Looney Tunes! Oh, Blue, can we watch it? Can we? Can we? Can we? Can we?"

Iris sighed, lowering the remote to the small side table with a resigned action.

This was going to be a long day in Arkham.


	2. Reflections of Life

**A/N: A big thanks goes out to all my reviewers! I hope I will not disappoint you with these future chapters!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything about Batman. If I did...well, I just don't. End of story.**

* * *

"_Normal is in the eye of the beholder."_

_~ Whoopi Goldberg_

Chapter 2: Reflections of Life

"I think I know how you stay so thin, Blue," Harley's voice was always audible over the usual din of Arkham's mess hall, particularly since she was located a mere foot from Iris at the cool metal table granted to the inmates to attempt to dine on—the key word, of course, being _attempt_, "I think I see ash floating in the soup…"

"One day, people might actually learn that smoking is an absolutely _disgusting_ habit," came the dry, unconcerned response, "Until that imbecilic excuse for a culinary genius learns such a lesson, which I've no doubt we won't until he topples over from lung cancer…" a casual sigh, "We shall continue to pay for his idiocy by having the remnants of his habit floating about in our food."

"I think the potatoes just moved…" the blonde clown said, looking quite ill as she poked them with the plastic utensils given to them, "I'm serious…I think mine just moved…"

"Then don't even try to ingest them," Iris replied calmly, "Some poor insect probably slipped into the pot and is struggling for its last breath in your food."

"I'll pay five dollars to the first person who ingests it," Edward said with a daring smirk on his face, "What do you say, Iris?"

"What use do we have for money in this place?" Ivy replied dryly, "And at any rate, where did _you_ get five dollars?"

"One of the guards needed a trivia answer to win 10,000 dollars," he answered, looking rather smug, "I told him nothing in this world is free, so he promised twenty dollars if I gave him the right answer."

"Oh, come on, Edward," Iris said, finally lowering the evening paper which had been curtaining her face, folding it with a quiet _crinkle_ and setting it on the metal table, "You're the last person I would expect to give some mindless imbecile a trivia answer. You should have let the idiot figure it out himself and fail miserably."

"Not to mention, twenty bucks from ten thousand?" Harley said, pushing her tray away with a wrinkled nose, "Talk about getting ripped off, Eddie!"

"Hardly," Iris continued, "Those things are a complete rip-off anyway. The government takes half the money anyway—if you're lucky. The fool will be lucky to receive one-thousand of what he was promised."

"Well, have to start saving up funds somehow, eh, Iris?" he grinned, stretching his arms above his head dramatically.

"Oh, yes, Edward," she said, brow raised, lip curled in a smirk, "You're going to get places with twenty bucks in your pocket. Remind me to take a picture of you on your release date, with your twenty dollar bill and a plastic bag…there goes Edward Nygma, off to make it _big_ in the world again…"

"You'd be surprised what an intellect of my caliber can do for a person, Iris." He replied cockily, to which she replied with a scoff and dismissive gesture.

"Mm hm…oh, believe me, Eddie, I've seen…shoot your mouth off with the guards, give the doctors a load of cheek, and get a needle shoved up your arm. _Very_ impressive…"

Harley burst into a fit of giggles, while Edward glared at her and opened his mouth to retort, "And your skill, Miss DeLaine? Expressing great knowledge of temptations of the flesh and the ability to get away with showing enough skin to get you hired on a stage with a pole can only get you so many places, you know."

"Got me more places than you," she replied.

"Like where?" he challenged, "Do educate us, madam…which inmate have _you_ been granted entrance to—"

He was cut off with a sharp _whack_ to the back of the head, "Watch your language, Nygma," Harvey growled, settling himself between the grumbling Riddler and a smirking Iris, "You are addressing a lady, or has your impressive intellect forgotten manners?"

"How was therapy?" Iris asked as she handed him the glass of water she'd saved for him.

"Useless, as always," he answered, taking a long drink, "Be prepared; Bartholomew says you're next as soon as the white coats take us back."

"Charming," she said, looking bored, "Well, in that case, what should I discuss tonight? Shall I divulge him about my abnormal fascination with deviant psychology? Or perhaps answer his questions regarding my apparent need for seclusion and how it stems back to my childhood? Or should I just do the always safe option of sitting down, folding hands in the lap like a good little girl, and answer his questions with teary-eyed confessions of personal guilt and regret for everything I've done in my miserable life?"

"Last option, most certainly," Edward said, "Keep chalking up the points, baby…you'll be out of here in two years, set out to rejoin sophisticated and proper civilization."

"If that's my option," she said, not looking up as an orderly passed by with a large tray filled with plates, setting one plate down before each inmate, "Then I think I'll opt to stay here for a while. Maybe I'll do something really deviant to make them keep me in useless therapy for a little while longer."

"My dear girl," the Puzzle Master commented, "I doubt there is a single bone in your body that is not deviant to the marrow…thus there is nothing you can possibly do to enhance that innate deviance."

"Go on, Edward…" she smiled coyly, "You're just saying that…"

"Is this supposed to be….Jell-O?" Harley whispered, poking the lime green blob on her plate, "Oh god, it's wiggling. Not normally either."

"Thank God I lost my sense of taste years ago," Iris said, pushing the plate in unison with the others to the center of the table.

* * *

"Good evening, Miss DeLaine," Dr. Bartholomew said, looking up as the guard released her and exited the office, "Please, have a seat." He gestured to the long couch stationed in front of his desk. Iris always hated this positioning, even more than she loathed the therapy. It gave her the feeling of being overly exposed, stretched out and unable to see his expression without craning her neck uncomfortably. Not to mention, the couch itself was highly uncomfortable—stiff and inflexible like a boxboard mattress.

"When is Dr. Leland due back from the conference?" she asked as she assumed her usual position—legs drawn up to her stomach, arms outstretched, elbows rested upon her angular kneecaps. The elder doctor gave a resigned sigh, picking up his notebook and pen.

"Miss DeLaine, I do wish you would just lie down. You know, I've been observing this behavior since we began our lessons, and I believe that this reluctance to assume such a vulnerable position stems from childhood trauma. Perhaps we could discuss that trauma…?"

"Everything stems from childhood trauma, Doctor," she replied, leaning back slightly, arms crossed behind her head as a makeshift pillow, "That is basic psychology that a _child_ could inform you of. There isn't a soul in this world that was not affected for better or worse by their youth. Everything begins in childhood…your acceptance of good and evil, your need to please in order to survive properly in this world….and of course, the fears that will remain with you for the rest of your life are conceived in youth. You reach into a cupboard for food, and a spider pierces your tender young flesh with its venom. From hence worth, an innate fear of dark corners is engraved into your mind, not to mention a nearly paralyzing fear of all and any arachnid life forms. You try to push it aside as time passes, as you grow older and sustain various forms of public and societal stature. You pass off your reluctance to reach into a cupboard or pantry with a scoff and redirecting of attention, saying that you are far too important to have to reach for anything in such a desolate corner of the house…isn't that right, Doctor? That is, of course, how your arachnophobia was born, is it not?"

A dark smile curved her lips as her eyes swept over his stiffened posture, the rigid manner in which he created the illusion that he was taking notes, "You never have reached into any sort of closed area—not in the infirmary, not in the recreation room, not even in your own office. In fact, you possess very few enclosed structures in here." Her eyes swept the room, "The only ones you contain that are used on a regular basis are your file drawers, and they are filled to the brim, nearly to the point of overflowing in fact, so as to not allow any sort of…unwanted visitor to creep unnoticed into the near vicinity of your hand, isn't that right, Dr. Bartholomew?

"You know…" she whispered, leaning closer to his frozen form, "You really ought to consider tending to _your_ psychological trauma…before you impose your biases and unwarranted accusations upon _our_ so-called traumas."

* * *

Night had fallen upon the asylum; the star-sprinkled skies were evident through the barred windows, though not nearly as clear as she would have liked. She loved to look out and view the night sky, especially when there was a moon. That great, silvery orb hovering majestically, illuminating the inky black sky with soft, glimmering rays…the light washing over your face and body, infecting you clean to the soul with a piercing wave of serenity…but there was no such luxury here within Arkham's walls. Here, such beauty and majesty held no place. Here, only cold, barren walls kept you in line, in your proper ranks like herded and caged animals. It was a miserable existence, and yet people could not comprehend why so many escapes were attempted, and more often than not, successful from the asylum grounds. If they lived but one week within these grey stone walls, they would comprehend such misery, and then perhaps they might understand the agonizing discomfort that surrounded these inmates without rest every day. But that was the purpose of Arkham Asylum: to keep the animals caged, and to protect the civilized people from the disease of madness and insanity.

Iris had been sitting upon the cot for near of an hour now, gazing in silence at the silver-dotted sky, trying to imagine what it would feel like to be out from the confines of her cell and breathe in the sweet scent of freedom that waited just beyond these walls. She remembered many nights when she would rest upon her rooftop, spread out upon the shingles to gaze up at the inky canvas. Finally, it became all too evident that such a luxury would not be granted to her merely by staring with childlike longing out the window. With a resigned sigh, she stepped off her bed, fingers drifting up from her sides and tugging her shirt over her dark head, then falling back down to remove her shorts. They rested in a neat uniform pile upon the floor, where they would be fetched by the custodians in the morning while the inmates where at breakfast. She had created a habit of sleeping naked since she was nine years of age. At that time, it had stemmed merely from a need to alleviate the pain from whatever injuries she had sustained, or had been inflicted on her, from the day. By the time she had entered college at the age of thirteen, it had become so ingrained into her psyche that it was a part of her nightly routine—shower and then bed, without an additional step to dress in nightclothes. She had not been assigned a roommate, probably because no respectable college student had been willing to room with her upon discovering they would be sharing a room with a girl who had just entered her teen years. Due to the absence of another person in the room, the shameless manner in which she slept had been permitted to continue without deterrence. Certainly, she had received her fair share of commentary and threats of discipline from the guards and orderlies, claiming that she was "disrupting the rehabilitation process of her fellow inmates". Her response had been that if only the guards had been noticing her skeletal form in the pitch black darkness, not the other inmates, so who was in need of treatment?

She slipped beneath the sheets, soft cotton rubbing against her naked flesh. One arm crossed and folded beneath her head, hand cupping the back of her skull. Her fingertips took small refuge in the softness of her black hair. A soft howl lifted from some unknown origin, drifting throughout the night on the wind, reaching her ears just before her consciousness left her. A small smile twitched her lips as her eyes fell closed.

_I hear you, my love…I hear you._


	3. Of Therapists and Clever Crimes

"_I take it that a successful therapy is an oxymoron."_

_~ Harold Bloom_

Chapter 3: Of Therapists and Clever Crimes

"Would anyone else like to comment on Mr. Dent's statement?" Bartholomew asked wearily, rubbing his temple with two fingers and looking as though he had aged fifty years over the last forty-five minutes of group therapy.

"Not necessary, Doctor," Iris replied smoothly, "I fancy Harvey's commentary regarding your obvious _therapeutic_ method of starving us to death speaks for itself."

Group therapy was never an event that held any sort of high mention amongst the Rogues; it was a time typically regarded as "public humiliation", during which one of the inmates would be put under the spotlight and have their past dissected more thoroughly than a high school biology lab fetal pig. That, at least, was the general idea, and for the rest of Arkham's inmates, it was a very successful process.

That, however, was only due to the fact that the rest of Arkham didn't know how to shut their mouth.

The Rogue Gallery, on the other hand, was a very different story. Unlike the other inmates, the Rogues knew how to keep their mouths shut—rather, wired shut, tight. Very few of them ever brought up anything about their past lives; and if they did, the moment doctors began to pry and poke, the wall went back up, immediately. Of course, various new doctors had their means and _revolutionary_ methods that were simply _guaranteed_ to _cure_ the Arkhamites. Not one of them had succeeded thus far, and none were ever promised success. The Rogues had grown far too resilient against such therapy attempts.

"Miss DeLaine, we are _not_ attempting to starve you!" the older doctor huffed, pointing the end of his ballpoint pen at the young woman, "Now, one might not be able to tell deduce a fact merely from looking at _you_, but it is a fact!"

"And if any saw the food we were served here, _Doctor_," she added a stiff, acidic edge to the word, "They might actually understand our opinion, biased though it might be. And I will thank you to register the fact that my body is none of your business. I was born with this figure, and I will die with this figure."

"If you hold no issues with your body image, Miss DeLaine," Bartholomew returned with a raised brow—always a tell-tale sign that "public humiliation" was about to begin, "Then might I inquire as to what possessed you to cover the mirror of your cell with tape and a garbage bag? Can't you even look into the mirror?"

Everyone in the room, with the apparent exception of the doctor himself, instantly knew that he'd gone too far. A heavy, stifling silence filled the room as all eyes riveted to Iris; Harley even quivered slightly in her seat beside Nygma and Isley at the dark-haired woman's posture. The one exposed eye was frigid and narrowed quite nearly to a slit. Her fingers were tight in her lap, nails threatening to do serious injury to her exposed thigh; her entire body was rigid, as though crafted from ice. The silence continued for several, rather agonizing moments before dark lips parted to speak.

"I think you will find, Doctor," she said quietly, "That some secrets are meant to be kept as our own…not unlike your rather childish fear of spiders."

Bartholomew swallowed hard, eyes darting about, seeing the smirks twisting the Rogues' faces with no small amount of anxiety, "Point…point taken, Miss DeLaine."

"Good to hear, _Doctor_," she replied, settling back in her chair easily, "Now, do you have any other insipid questions, or may we be pardoned to the library?"

"In but a moment," he said, standing up, "I have an announcement." Ignoring the less than pleased expressions on the inmates' faces, he cleared his throat, "Now, if I might have your attention," he continued, as though there was anything else in the room that might prove remotely attention-grabbing (though the furniture was always an option), "As you are all aware, Dr. Leland has been at a conference for the last week. However, we just received news that familial matters have come up most unexpectedly. Thus, she will not be returning for the foreseeable future. Also, I will be taking a most-deserved vacation—" Edward scoffed at that statement, "—and will be out of the country for at least a month, perhaps more. Now, I know you all are wondering who will be conducting group therapy sessions from here on out. Well, I think you all could use a break from the same old faces, which is why I've brought in a quite cheerful face for you! Please welcome your new psychiatrist, Dr. Amy Sunshine!"

"_Sunshine_?" Harley whispered to her redheaded companion, "Tell me its one of those chicks who was named something completely opposite her personal—"

"Good morning, boys and girls!" a voice trilled from the doorway. Bartholomew stepped aside to allow the newcomer entrance. It was a young woman of about average height, with crimped blonde curls that spiraled madly around her face and shoulders, bouncing when she walked, or rather skipped, into the room. She was decked out in a clean, spotless white blouse, a neon pink skirt (that resembled a ballerina tutu) and matching heels. Jewelry dangled, jingled, and bounced from her ears, wrists and fingers; there was an abundance of large, beaded necklaces hanging around her neck and rolling over her well endowed chest. Fingers tipped in the same pink of her skirt and heels reached up to pull her sunglasses away, revealing a pair of bright blue eyes that held a manic glee that made Harley dive for Iris' lap, arms wrapped around her as though clinging to a life size teddy bear.

"Good morning!" she repeated, her smile resembling the Joker's, "I'm _so_ happy to see all these cheerful faces around me! I can't wait for us to become best friends!"

"Yes, Harley," Iris said slowly and quietly, quite similar to the way one would instruct a companion to step away from a dangerous animal on the verge of charging at them both, "I'd say her name is _quite_ reflective of her personality."

The blonde clown clung to her tighter with a whimper, "She's scaring me…!"

* * *

"Oh, my babies…" Ivy crooned, drawing the potted plants close to her, gathering them from their previously uniform alignment on the window sill, "My precious, precious babies…thank God, you're here. Yes…Mommy needs your love, sweethearts…won't you give it to her? Oh, of course you will…my little angels…"

Harley stared at her usual choice of a coloring book with wide eyes, "I don't think I can even look at this anymore, Blue…" she sighed, pushing it away, "Everyone in here looks like our new doc…"

"Please, Harleen, _kindly_ do not insult that title by granting it to that…thing." Iris said coolly, "She's a mix of every Barbie doll ever created…not to mention she has the maturity level of a nine year old spoiled brat. God, this is why I _loathe_ children…"

"Careful what you say, Iris, darling…" Ivy replied, pausing in her adoration of her babies, "You might end up a mother one day yourself."

"And Edward is going to become a humble monk," Iris smirked, "Don't think so, Pam…" she twisted her body on the sofa, twirling about in place to stretch her long, rail-like legs over the end of the furniture and rest her head upon the Riddler's lap. Stormy green eyes drifted down from his newspaper to her dark head across his thighs.

"Iris…I _am_ attempting to work on something." He spoke with an attempted scold in his voice, but it was utterly rebuked by the sphinx smile spreading across his face.

"A crossword puzzle which we all know you will complete in under ten minutes," she answered, settling herself a bit more comfortably, "I hardly think it will injure you beyond repair to _not_ enhance your ego for one day, Edward. Now hold still; your wiggling is making me uncomfortable."

"Yes, ma'am." He replied with a cocky smile, reclining back and returning his eyes to the newspaper, which he'd neatly folded into a perfect rectangular shape.

Harley sighed loudly, perching herself on the edge of the couch, looking down at the younger girl, "So, Blue…" she said, tapping her fingers on her knee to the tune of "A Spoonful of Sugar", "What are we gonna do about the new doctor? She creeps me out," she added with her infamous quivering lip.

"Ignore it, Harl," Iris replied, sounding almost bored, "Like I said, her maturity level is down the drain. She has no idea who she is dealing with, and if she thinks she can just waltz in here and turn us all into the Brady Bunch…well, we all know the methods of pest control that make us happy."

"I love it when you talk that way, toots!" a cackle came from across the library. Iris slowly sat upright, looking over to a shadowed corner where an elderly man was sitting, slightly hunched, with a puppet sported upon his lap. The wooden face of the puppet was looking directly at her, "Makes my splinters melt, baby…hows about a drink? You and me…all alone…"

"I'm flattered, Scarface," she answered, spinning her legs around to rest over the edge of the couch, "Just as I'm flattered about the advances I'm earning from Edward, the cook, half the staff, nearly all of the guards, and let us not forget our dearly departed Dr. Jackson."

Scarface cackled loudly at the mention of the last temporary psychologist who had come to Arkham a little under a month ago, and had left three weeks later after highly unusual private sessions with the three women in the Gallery—all three at the same time. His advances were undesired by any of the three, and Jackson ended up in the hospital's intensive care unit.

"Sit up, Arnold," Iris added with a playful smile on her lips, "You're not that old."

The Ventriloquist smiled softly, straightening his back. Scarface scoffed, "At least she's around to take care of ya when I ain't, Dummy! Maybe you ought to marry her—or at least adopt her! We needs a woman around the joint, don't ya think, Dummy?"

"W…Well, that would be l-l-lovely, Mr. Scarface…" Arnold answered, a blush creeping across his cheeks at Scarface's expectant glare, "B-But I hardly think Miss Iris would appreciate our facility…"

"Nonsense!" Scarface dismissed, "She'd give the joint a feminine touch, wouldn't ya, sweetheart?"

"You flatter me, Scarface," Iris said, standing and bowing low, "But I'm afraid I might disappoint you. You see, I am not one to keep house and all that, like a good little house wife. If that is what you seek, as I said, you will be sorely disappointed."

"Oh, don't speak of yourself that way, Miss Iris," Arnold said, a soft crease appearing between his brow, "You are anything but a disappointment."

"And you are a sweet talker," Iris replied, though she had a smile on her face that replaced the frown on Arnold's face with a deep crimson blush that made his puppet snicker.

"You boys are all very thoughtful," she continued, "But as you know, my heart belongs to another."

"Bah," Edward scoffed, "A scarecrow without a single romantic bone in his body. Why do you stay with him, my dearest, when you know that we are simply meant for each other?"

"Oh, give it a rest, Nygma," Harvey grunted from an armchair propped up against the near wall, "Just because she's the only person in this world who can actually solve your riddles and make you look mildly unintelligent does not mean you can sweep her off and take her to the quickest chapel you can find."

"I am a patient man…" Edward replied, leaning back with a long stretch before folding his hands behind his head, "Soon enough, my darling Iris will come to her senses and see that we were born destined for each other."

"And people say _I_ live in a delusion."

"Well, look who it is." Iris smiled at the newcomer's voice, "The pride of the Rogue Gallery. Returning from your parole hearing, I see…"

"Indeed," Jervis Tetch said, slowly lowering himself onto the sofa beside Nygma, "And it seems…all will be approved, all will be granted."

"In other words, you passed your competency hearing." Iris smiled, "Come on, Jervis…where's that smile? You should be proud of yourself."

"Oh, I suppose in several rights I am," the Hatter answered, leaning back with a quiet sigh, "In my own right, at least."

"Tetch, can't you speak normally for once in your life?" Nygma mumbled from behind his newspaper, "Honestly…"

"Compared to what, Edward?" Iris replied, "Your personal diction that would make Einstein's head spin clean off his shoulders? I personally find Jervis' dialect soothing and calming."

"I find it positively maddening," he returned with a scoff.

"I'm mad, you're mad," Iris wrapped her arms around Jervis' shoulders from behind, resting her chin atop his head with a smile, "We're all mad here."


	4. Session 1: Past

"_What we remember from childhood we remember forever - permanent ghosts, stamped, inked, imprinted, eternally seen." _

_~ Cynthia Ozick_

Chapter 4: Session # 1 – Past

Iris DeLaine was not a nostalgic being. She had never been such a person. Well, perhaps, she had been in childhood—all seven years of childhood that had been granted to her. But that was a part of her past which she had no need, reason, or desire to unearth.

Which was precisely why she _hated_ group therapy.

"Miss DeLaine, why don't we start with you first?" Dr. Sunshine beamed, twirling a bright pink pen between lime green-tipped fingers, "After all, age before beauty, as the saying goes. Now then," she continued, dutifully ignoring the expression of wintry distain etched upon the teenage inmate's face, "Where to begin…you know I must admit that I'm having difficulty finding anything very specific in your file. How am I supposed to start you off if I have no idea where to even begin?"

"That is the general idea, Doctor." Iris answered dryly, her angular face propped up with one hand; the other rested upon her folded knee, spidery fingers tapping irregularly against the bare skin, "Are there any other blatantly obvious notions you wish to address before we go on to the _group_ part of group therapy, or is the youngest member of this little club going to be the guinea pig for the week?"

Dr. Sunshine was seated in the chair directly pointing towards the door. Her introduction had established the color scheme of her clothing which the inmates would be forced to look out and only hope they wouldn't be blinded. She was certainly keeping up her designated image, today bearing a pair of bright red slacks and a lemon yellow top, with matching sandals. Her hair was drawn up in a neat bun, a professional contrast to the childish color scheme of her clothing and nail polish. The inmates surrounded her in the traditional circular formation established by Dr. Bartholomew. Harley was sitting next to the empty seat beside Sunshine, knees crossed on the cheap plastic seat, arms folded behind her head; Ivy sat demurely beside her, ankles neatly crossed, hands folded in her lap. Across from the three women, Iris and Jervis sat beside each other, the latter toying absently with his hat, fixing the ribbon around it with a concentrated look on his face.

"Miss DeLaine, I might have only been here for a few short days, but don't think I haven't noticed your hostility towards the people who are trying to help you." She clucked her tongue, shaking her head, "Why do you act like that?"

"Why do you insist on talking to me like I'm a toddler?" Iris replied coldly. Blonde eyebrows rose at the wintry tone of the teenager; she made a note on her clipboard before looking back up with her usual beaming smile.

"You seem to have an issue with authority, Iris—"

"Miss DeLaine will do just fine," Iris said, eyes narrowing dangerously.

"And you have no desire to establish personal connections with your doctors. You do know that we are trying to help you, don't you, sweetie? Does that scare you?"

"I'm not afraid of therapy," she said quietly, "And _sweetie_ is not necessary."

"Honey, tell me," Sunshine said, purposefully ignoring the last comment, as well as the cold look in her eyes, "Does this come from something that happened when you were just a little baby? How was your relationship with your parents?"

"Excuse me?" Iris said quietly, her face tight and frigid.

"You heard me, sweetie, how was the relationship with your parents?"

_

* * *

_

_The living room was a large area, with royal purple carpeting pooling out from under the mahogany furniture, lining the warm ivory-painted walls, and spilling out into the foyer through a rounded archway carved into the structure of the wall. In the foyer, thick purple fabric met cool, solid tile; the individual stones combined to creature a design that one might expect to see on the floors of Indian temples. The tiles continued up from the entry hall to the grand staircase—a splendid piece of architecture, winding, twisting as it climbed higher and higher through the six story mansion. Each individual floor had its own extension from the staircase; there was a glass elevator with gold and silver trimmings to the immediate left of the staircase, for any visitors who possessed little or no desire to make the trek up the tiled stairs. Many visitors were there for business matters, with either the Master or Lady of the house; they were quite frequently elderly men who called upon the Master of the estate, and it was for their very benefit that the elevator had been specifically built and installed. Such generosity had been rewarded with considerable donations to Master DeLaine's growing corporation, or in the event of a proposition from DeLaine, such a proposal was immediately passed with little consideration to the contrary._

_It was in the living room that many a visitor often spotted a child—all knew her to be Mr. DeLaine's child. It was rumored that she was not his first, but in the view of high society, she was given that very title and treated as such. In the social view, she was the heir, first-born and pride of her parents'. For her tender young age of 4, she was quite the pretty thing, the society ladies always said. A small, lithe creature, with already a mane of inky black hair, falling in a neat sheet to the middle of her back; pale skin and oddly rosy lips, and a pair of the bluest eyes you had ever seen in your life. When she was taken to the parties and galas of her father's business, the ladies always swooned and crooned over the child. Their eyes, exaggerated by the abundance of makeup they always wore, took in the whole vision with many a coo and soft "ooh" of admiration: the slender child, with her inky stain of hair drawn up in a ponytail, or hanging down her back, but always tied with a silk ribbon which flawlessly matched the color of her dress for the evening; these dresses were always silk, with the occasional trim of lace; and finally, the neat little white or black stockings with a smart pair of shoes to complete the image of perfection._

_Something people would always note with awe about the DeLaine girl was her obedience. Even when the gala dragged on for hours and hours without a foreseeable end, she never fussed or bawled with tired irritation. She sat quietly upon her designated seat, her hands politely folded in her lap during speeches, legs always uniformly placed together, not like the other children who sat sprawled and indecent in their chairs, whining and making a scene for the parent. No, not this one; DeLaine's girl remained quiet during the entire ordeal; even when the adults were falling asleep in their seats, she seemed to be staring with rapt attention at the speaker. People always noticed this. It could be someone as utterly dull as the accountant, rattling off the latest numbers from the corporation's statistics, which no one desired to hear, but it was policy nonetheless (because none had thought to change said policy). The child would listen, eyes and ears open and alert, her thirst and hunger for their words positively radiating from her little form. _

_If one spoke to this girl, they would find themselves quite taken aback by her use of language. Where other children where using one, two, maybe three word sentences, this one was speaking as one might expect a child of ten, perhaps even twelve years to speak. She was polite, gracious, and had the best table manners of any child these society folk had ever seen. The ladies always complimented Mr. DeLaine on his child's ability to distinguish the salad fork from the entre fork, the way she neatly spread her napkin out across her little lap, how she always asked for something with "please" and "may I", and of course, her ability to recognize every man and his wife by face and recalled their name with a "Mr." and "Mrs." The men were always commenting about the child's looks to DeLaine, praising him on his choice of a wife and the offspring their union had produced, saying that, "The girl's bond for the modeling agency, just like her mother!" The women gossiped amongst themselves about Mrs. DeLaine, exclaiming they simply did not know how she did it—raising a child, providing for a family, and all while keeping herself young and stunningly beautiful in her modeling career._

_They were the perfect, ideal American family: a successful, caring father, a beautiful, loving mother, and the prodigy child._

_If any actually had considered to look closer at the four year old child of Mr. and Mrs. DeLaine, however, they might have noticed something that would have been quite unsettling to them. Beneath the neat, clean silk of her dress were marks—small scars, bruises fading or just beginning to rise, raw, red patches upon the belly, legs, and pelvic region from where the pale, tender flesh had been rubbed raw, quite often with ammonia…and even more often for no reason. But even more unnerving, if one looked closely into the eyes of this secretive child, they would have seen sadness—a heavy, impenetrable, devastating sadness that would melt the heart of even the most hardened criminal._

_It was a typical day in late October, specifically 7pm, October 30__th__. The sun had set some hours ago, leaving in its place a blanket of thick violet and dark blue across the sky. By the time the moon would rise that night, the sky would be ebony, just like the color of the child's hair. She sat in the living room, the only other place in the house she spent her time, other than her private quarters, dressed in a lovely blue nightgown, hair sporting a silk ribbon. In her hands, she held a large piece of paper, construction paper to be exact. On this paper was a drawing, one which consumed every corner of the paper with color and detail. This was no mere childish doodle. Great care had been taken when creating this work of art. It depicted the sunset flooding the late sky, over the ocean shore. The water included a soft white foam line, done carefully with a colored pencil and crayon to give it the appropriate texture on the paper; the waves themselves were shown rolling and tumbling over each other, colored the vivid color mixture which they reflected from the heavens. The sky was an array of pale purple, vivid magenta, royal blue, and burning gold; the sun itself was a gold and red orb, sinking below the distant horizon. This drawing had not been done by the mere imagination, but by the child making her way down the shore which her home rested near, supplies in hand, and watching the sunset with rapt attention until every detail was perfectly etched into her memory, and upon her paper._

_One of the two doors opened in the entry hall, followed by a steady, uniform precision of footsteps walking upon the tile. A soft rustle indicated a coat being hung on the mahogany coat rack beside the door, and then the footsteps continued. Soon, a tall figure, dressed in a professional suit and carrying a briefcase, walked past the arched entry into the living room._

"_Daddy!" the child called, standing and walking with all haste towards her father, her small legs taking extra strides to keep up with his long ones, "Daddy, I drew this for you. Daddy, won't you look?"_

_Sharp blue eyes, ones which he'd passed to his child, drifted down to the drawing held in outstretched arms. A large hand moved down to take it from her, examining the detail carefully. He rolled it up and tucked it under his arm, delivering a brief pat to the dark head before making his way up to the fifth floor, where his office and bedroom lay in wait._

"_Father, please…" she called after him, voice slowly losing its enthusiasm and eagerness for his approval, "Father…don't you like it? I made it for you."_

"_Go to bed, Iris."_

_The door fell closed behind him without another word._

_

* * *

_

_The memories drifted backwards, to 2 years earlier—a spring day, sometime in April or May perhaps. The timing was not so clear this time, as the child was only two years old, barely so in fact. She found herself on the steps of the first level, sitting quietly and turning the pages of a fashion magazine. The magazine and its main contents were of little interest to her; it was the color that intrigued her. After all, she had only recently discovered her interest in and knack for art, and if she wished to excel and please in such a field, she had to learn proper color schemes. The maid had assisted her in learning a few titles she didn't quite know, such as "turquoise" and "aquamarine"._

_Closing the magazine and setting it down while she stood up, the child then gathered the book up in her arms and slowly made her way down the stairs. What she had not anticipated was the wet texture her bare feet were met with on the recently washed floor. She held her footing for a little while, but about halfway down, her small feet were met with a patch that had not been properly dried. She caught such a spot right on the heel, a dangerous situation and she knew it. Her mind raced: grabbing the railing would surely save her balance, but if she dropped the magazine, it would surely be damaged, even if a little bent. Mother would be furious! That was her newest edition! Trying to cling to the magazine and grasp the large columns of the staircase at the same time quickly proved to be utterly in vain. The magazine slipped; the weight was too much for her thin frame to maintain balance with, and her foot slipped fiercely on the wet patch. The cry of terror barely escaped her lips before she tumbled, slipped, crashed down the staircase, clutching the magazine like a lifeline. She landed with an awful __**thud**__ upon the floor, quivering and whimpering. She looked down at the magazine. It was unscathed, which was far more than could be said for the child. Bruising had already begun on her pale skin, and she was bleeding a bit from a small knick in the shoulder. Forcing herself to her feet, she hurried into the room parallel to the living room—a private room reserved for her mother. Photo shoots, dress modeling and hemming occurred in this room, as demonstrated by the multitude of mirrors contained in this room. As the sniffling girl entered the room, she saw her mother standing upon the small, circular lift, spinning slowly in place, examining the dress she was currently wearing. The child hurried over. She knew better than to touch the dress, but her arms reached up for her mother, whimpering._

"_Mother, please…the stairs…I f-fell…please, it hurts…"_

_SLAP!_

_The magazine fell upon the stage quietly as the girl went to her knees, both hands covering her stinging face. Shock and pain mingled in her tears as she looked back at her mother. "What is wrong with you, Iris? Look at what you've done!" the girl cried out as a fistful of her hair was suddenly locked in her mother's tight grip. She could feel her nails scraping the scalp as she was roughly yanked forward. Her watering eyes managed to open, seeing a few small water stains on the silk of the dress, "Look at it, you stupid brat! You insipid wench, if this dress is ruined because of your little waterworks, you __**know**__ what happens to you!"_

"_Mother, please! Please not that…"_

"_You're lucky it's only water, Iris…or you would pay for it dearly! Get out of my sight before you do any more damage! NOW!"_

* * *

"My childhood was perfectly normal," Iris answered quietly, her eyes barely blinking, face an image of calmness, "Quite uneventful, really…Of course, there were the frequent galas and conventions—high society events that both my parents attended. Frankly, they were of little importance…and I was far too young to remember them very well."

"I don't quite believe that, my dear," Sunshine said, tapping her pen against two nails with a thoughtful expression on her face—always a danger sign for the patients.

"Well, that's your personal opinion, isn't it?" Iris replied with the same tone and demeanor, "Think what you will, Doctor, I am simply telling you the facts of it."

"But if you were too young to remember it all clearly, isn't there a possibility of something else occurring in your youth? Something…quite detrimental to your psyche? After all," she leaned forward, her cleavage straining at the neck of her shirt, "At your tender young age…surely you couldn't have had a completely rational and normal childhood if you've landed yourself in this place. Come now, love…think a little harder."

"I've told you all I remember," Iris said shortly.

"Oh, tush! There must be something more…here! Let's try this, all of you," she gestured to the others with nauseating enthusiasm, "I want you all to close your eyes…take nice and slow deep breaths…in…and out…in…and out…that's right…now then, I want you all to think back to your childhood. Think of your very first day of school…what do you see? Hear? Smell? What feelings are going through your mind as you walk through those doors…you're seeing your teacher…they're pointing you to a chair—where are you sitting? Who is around you? Think carefully now…"

* * *

"_Class, pay attention now." The teacher was a short and plump woman, clapping equally plump hands together to get the attention of the students. After five or ten minutes, they finally quieted—not out of respect or interest for the teacher, but because all eyes were fixed on the seven year old student standing at the front of the classroom, hands wrapped tightly around a backpack, her eyes fixated on the floor. The rounded hands lowered down to gently clasp the thin shoulders of the girl; it was no doubt meant to be a motherly gesture. It made the girl quiver._

"_Miss Robinson," A girl from the front row called, not bothering to raise her hand, "Is that your daughter or something?"_

"_Don't be ridiculous, Annabelle!" Miss Robinson laughed airily, "This is your new classmate!"_

"_Classmate?" a bulky boy sitting next to Annabelle spoke with a heavy snicker, "She looks like she's seven or something! If she's lookin' for 1__st__ grade, it's downstairs, kid. __**This**__ is 7__th__ grade!"_

"_Mr. Bradley! Have some manners!" she scolded, "Now, I know she might be a bit young, but Miss DeLaine is quite a brilliant child, and I expect all of you to treat her as you do your friends. Now then, my dear, why don't you…" she looked around, clearly pretending to look for a seat in the front row. There were none. "Ah! There we are, dear, why don't you have a seat right there, by the window!"_

_She might have made it sound like it was a lovely window seat, close to the teacher's desk. It was a desk that had been shoved hastily into the furthest corner of the classroom, behind all other students. The girl slowly made her way to the back, eyes remaining on the floor, her hands clutching the bag, knuckles whitening with the fierce grip. She had to avoid a few protruding legs as she walked, something she did in complete silence. Her lack of response only seemed to provoke the others._

"_Nice bandage," one boy sneered, a bit of saliva flying from his fat lips against her bandaged face, "What happened? Mommy get tired of looking at your face, __**freak**__?"_

"_Freak…freak…freak…freak…" the chanting followed her all the way back to her seat. The chair was an appropriate height, but her long legs were in danger of hitting the girl in front of her. She tried to pull them back. She wasn't fast enough._

"_Watch it, you creep!" the girl spat, "Don't touch me! I don't need any of your sniffling crap or whatever disease you've caught this week!"_

_She brought her legs under and through the metal legs of the chair, hiding them in a very uncomfortable position. The desk had been carved and doodled on to the point where there was no area on the wooden surface that would not prove detrimental to writing on a single sheet of paper._

_The girl looked down at her textbook as Miss Robinson began to teach. She felt ugly. She felt alone._

_She felt like a freak._

* * *

"There!" Dr. Sunshine's voice broke the silence of the room, "Now then, how do you all feel?" her eyes swept over the room, searching the expressions a little too enthusiastically. Harley was sitting chewing her lower lip slightly; Ivy was smirking to herself, as though remembering some point of triumph—however twisted it might have been. Harvey Dent was methodically flipping his coin, looking quite uninterested in the whole situation. She made a mental note to the odd look on Edward Nygma's face; he was clearly trying to appear as bored and un-intrigued with the exercise as Dent, but there was a slight twitch to the face. It was gone nearly the moment he noticed her eyes on him.

Her attention was then devoted to Iris DeLaine's face. She was, privately, quite taken aback. Dent's behavior was aloof and dismissive—no doubt a symptom of his dissociate identity disorder; his alter would have no regard for Harvey's past life. But DeLaine…she was not even uninterested. Her face looked as though carved from ice. All features were entirely void of emotion, as though wiped clean by some alien force. She blinked slowly and naturally, nothing to suggest she was using some sort of centering technique learned in youth. Her hands were folded calmly in her lap, shoulders relaxed but not lazy…her entire demeanor betrayed absolutely nothing. It quite nearly gave the impression she had no childhood memories to recall, therefore no emotions to unearth.

"Are you done with us now, Doctor?" Iris asked quietly, nodding to the clock, "Time's up."

"So…so it is," Sunshine said, trying to get herself together, to hide the obvious manner in which Iris' behavior had unnerved her, "Well then, I will see you all next week, won't I? And I believe you're off to…what is it…?"

"Dinner, and then home sweet home," Iris said, standing and making her way to the door, "You'll figure out our schedule soon enough, Doctor, believe me…it's not that hard to learn."

* * *

"I understand that Miss DeLaine is your patient, Dr. Leland," Sunshine sighed softly, her shoulder and ear cradling the phone while taking notes on a small pad of paper, "Yes…yes, I understand you were conducting your own—Doctor, how can you say you were making progress? There isn't a drop of emotion in the girl's body! No, I am _not_ backing down from the task! No…no, I am simply asking for your permission to…" there was a long pause, at the end of which the blonde sighed heavily, "I have a technique of my own that might prove useful to Miss DeLaine, Joan…yes, I am aware many have tried, all have failed."

She frowned slightly, "What makes me think she's different? Joan, she's only sixteen! She's not as hardened as the others—oh, don't be ridiculous! There is no possible way she's as hardened as the others, and certainly no possibility she's even _worse_ than them." Another pause, "Well, I'm certain you do know what you're talking about, Joan, but I am quite confident in my therapeutic techniques. Just give me my dues while you and Dr. Bartholomew are out of the asylum, alright? I _do_ have a degree in Psychology, you know. Yes, I'm sure I will," she said, quite sarcastically, "Yes…yes, good evening."

* * *

"So…what did _you_ remember about your first day of school, Blue?"

"Classroom full of brats, and teacher who didn't have a brain in her head, and desk that had been beat to the ninth circle of hell." Iris replied, voice dripping with boredom as she carefully examined the barrel of a semi-automatic, "What did you see while floating about in the mystical trance of Doctor Sunshine, Harley?"

"Oh, just the usual…couple of boys acting goofy…guess that means they liked me or something," the blonde shrugged, toying idly with her pigtails. With an idle sigh, she rolled over on her flat belly, looking across the storage closet where all three girls were currently residing…without permission, of course, "What about you, Red? What did you see?"

"A repulsive little brat asking me if my hair was a wig," the vixen answered dryly, "I told her it was not, but if she kept running her mouth like that, I'd be happy to make those little blonde ringlets of hers a wig for our family pet."

"I thought you hated dogs, Ivy," Iris said, toying with the firing mechanism of the gun.

"I do,"

"Not _my_ babies!" Harley protested, "My little boys are angels! You don't hate my babies, do ya, Red?"

"_Especially_ your babies," the redhead said shortly. The clown whined and sat in the corner, sporting pouting lips that made Iris' curve into a smirk. The ebony-haired teen sat back on a crate labeled **Explosives: High Risk – Do NOT Handle**. She spun the gun idly between two fingers, gazing out the small window. Poison Ivy continued perusing through rows of small plastic drawers stacked upon one of the metal shelves in the storage closet—the closet that housed all confiscated materials of the Rogue Gallery. The gun Iris had been examining, now returned to its place on another shelf, was most likely one used by Harvey…one of two, that is. Iris personally had little interest in guns. They were too quick for her liking; she preferred knives, daggers, or any other blade she could get into her possession.

The gun having lost her attention, Iris was now propped up on the small bench beside the window; a guard sat there during the day, keeping guard over the items. Apparently, it hadn't yet occurred to the security department in Arkham that any escape attempts did not happen in the broad and exposing light of day, but at night, under the cover of darkness. Iris chalked it up to the lack of common sense that was sweeping the city, the state, and the country.

Her lanky arm rested at an angle on the small brick ledge, her dark head resting on her upper arm, eyes gazing out over what little she could see through the small glass pane. Her focus was not on the city, or even how much security was prowling around the asylum tonight. Her attention was on the moon. It was a crescent tonight, a narrow sliver of rounded silver light gleaming in the dark sky. Her hand drifted up, fingers pressing to the glass, trying to reach past wall, glass, and the limits of gravity and space to touch the source of such tranquil comfort and peace that overwhelmed her every time she saw that shimmering silver light.

After a few long moments of lingering in her meditative trance, she slowly returned to the confinement of the storage cell. Her eyes drifted back to her female companions. Harley was currently pawing at the redhead, whining about something or another. Ivy was ignoring her, as usual, while she searched through the drawers. Finally, her curvaceous body straightened, a gleam of triumph in her green eyes, "There you are, my darlings…" she cooed to five or six of her instant-growth seeds, which she tenderly pocketed within the safety of her brassiere, "Safe with Mommy again…" her eyes turned down to the blonde, who was now clinging to her leg with an expression on her young face that could only be described as painfully pitiful. With a heavy sigh, Ivy slowly nodded, "Alright, Harley…you can stay in my cell tonight. If…" she added with a stern expression, "You. Do. Not. Touch. The. Plants…under _**any**_ circumstances!"

Somehow, noting the gleeful and blissfully ignorant jabbering now coming nonstop from Harley's mouth, Iris predicted she would be hearing the tell-tale crack of a potted plant breaking, followed by Ivy's shriek…in about…an hour. Two hours tops.


	5. Session 2: Present

"_The distinction between the past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion."_

_~ Albert Einstein _

Chapter 5: Session #2 – Present

"Good morning, everyone!" the trill of Amy Sunshine's voice rang out as she trotted into the room. Today, she was bedecked entirely in hot pink and white, even down to her pinstriped pumps and toenail polish. She swirled into her seat with her usual smile, "Well then, I've been told that everyone has been on their _best_ behavior since the last time I saw all your lovely faces! May I just say I am tickled pink to know such wonderful things about you all."

"Really now…?" Iris said, her naturally arched brow raised nearly to the hairline at the sight of the doctor's clothing, "We'd never be able to tell. By those clothes…we thought you'd be colored unimpressed."

"Is that your attitude for the day, Miss DeLaine?" she asked, blue eyes turning to face the young woman with vigorous interest.

"Well, Doctor," she said with a rather unnervingly pleasant smile, "You see, unlike you…we do not have the luxury of wearing our emotions on our sleeves." She gestured with a hand down to the bland grey of her uniform.

"What color do you prefer to wear, while we're on that topic, dear girl?" she asked, prepared to make a note on her clipboard. She was also expecting silence or a redirecting answer from the headstrong patient, which was why she was quite taken aback when she heard Iris' answer.

"Black," she answered smoothly and directly.

"And why is that?"

"Because it matches my soul."

Edward smirked and gave a chuckle into his closed fist; his smirk was mirrored on Harvey's face even as the former district attorney continued to flip his coin. Scarface threw her a wink, "Not to mention it looks great on ya, baby doll, especially that fine looking ass of yours!"

Arnold went scarlet, clearly prepared to stammer out an apology. Iris brushed some black hair over her narrow shoulder and tossed the mob boss puppet a classy smile, "You can look all you want, Scarface…just don't touch or I'll demonstrate a new way to remove a splinter."

The puppet cackled while Arnold went from scarlet to vermillion, the heat practically radiating from his round face. Edward gave his trademark grin, hand inching over the empty seat between him and Iris. His smirk widened as her long, spidery fingers whipped down from her thigh and stopped his path, "I said, look and don't touch, Edward."

"Behave, Nygma…" Harvey taunted in his gravely voice, "You know who gets out of solitary confinement tomorrow, and if he catches you with your hand in the cookie jar…"

"Hah," he dismissed, "My darling will come to her senses soon enough. You will see, Iris…we were simply meant for each other, and nothing shall keep us apart—especially not a man without a drop of romance in his bones. Honestly, Iris, however do you tolerate him?"

"The same way I tolerate you, you egocentric pervert," she smirked, "With a great deal of patience…and an image of me kicking your sorry ass if you cross the line. That usually helps me sleep at night quite nicely."

Scarface and Harvey burst out in a chorus of raucous laughter, accompanied by Harley's giggles and Waylon's throated guffaws. Sunshine rubbed her temple slightly, clearing her throat, "Back to the matter at hand," she said, focusing her attention on Iris once again, "Last week, we discussed the events that occur in childhood that contribute to the decisions we make in our later life. Today, we will be considering the events in particular that led you all here to institutionalization in Arkham Asylum. Now then, Miss DeLaine—"

"Are you planning on speaking to anyone _else_ in this room, or just the young one?" Iris asked dryly, her eyes narrow as she looked at the doctor.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, Miss DeLaine. I already know the reasons for why everyone else came to Arkham, and I don't even have to read their files to know those facts. All one has to do is read the newspaper or watch the evening news to learn those details." She opened the folder in her lap, "Now…once again, Miss DeLaine, I find your file a bit empty of the details…odd though. I could have _sworn_ there were other documents in here last night…ah, well…" she dismissed the strange discovery for the preferred choice of public humiliation, "Miss DeLaine…perhaps you would care to share the details of your coming to Arkham?"

In response to her blank face, Sunshine merely turned the page, "Here, honey, let me help…give you a few details. I find that always helps me remember things. Now…" she found what she was looking for and cleared her throat, "It seems that you are a doctorate student at our very own Gotham State University, and at the ripe young age of sixteen! You brilliant girl, you've got your whole life ahead of you, and you don't even have to worry about being old yet! Let's see…Undergraduate degree earned in Psychology, minor degree in Chemistry…went on to continue your education at Gotham State…my word, child," she looked back up for a moment, as though comprehending what she was reading and trying to mold it around the stone-faced teenager sitting across from her, "Entered Gotham State at thirteen years old, completed nearly eight years of college in less than _three_…it says that once you're released from Arkham, you're expected to finish your studies in mere months and graduate with your Masters degree!"

She paused, looking over the rest of the information, "Honey, I have to admit…I'm finding difficulty seeing anything in here that would give any reason for why they would just ship off the most brilliant student Gotham University has ever seen to the madhouse! Sweetie…do you know why they sent you to Arkham?"

* * *

"_You have no proof,"_

_The office of Dr. Long was a fairly large area, furnished with a long, rectangular desk, with a dark polish on the wood; a smaller, round table rested on the opposite end of the room, complete with four chair for small conferences. The doctor was seated in his large, posh chair, wearing his usual suit and a dark frown as he considered the daring and brutally frank comment of the girl sitting across the polished plain of his desk. She was the youngest student at the University, having only turned sixteen about three, maybe four months earlier. Her long black hair might hide her right eye, but the left one burned a vivid, nearly poisonous blue. Her daring and stubborn will all but radiated from her, even as she sat cool and collected. The head of Gotham State privately grimaced at her cold regality, shamefully confessing his sudden understanding as to why that lunatic had taken such interest in her._

"_I have heard rumors, young lady—" he began, attempting to regain control over the situation._

"—_and nothing more," her voice cut clean through his imperious words, bringing her control back over their conversation, "You've heard gossip from a collection of mindless quarterbacks and preening cheerleaders who are failing the class at hand. Honestly, Dr. Long, I would have expected more from a man of your authoritative position—surely you would not take this to the board with such lackluster evidence. You have absolutely no proof that any crime was committed on these grounds, end of story."_

"_Be that as it may," he said shortly, "If these are little more than rumors, you won't object to informing me of your activities with him, will you, Miss DeLaine?"_

"_I'm terribly sorry to disappoint you, Doctor," she answered with wintry firmness in her tone, "But I do object. My relationship with my professor is none of your business."_

"_You are __**sixteen**__ years old," he said, his frustration eating away at the attempted calmness in his voice, "He is well over twice your age!"_

"_And your point?"_

"_My point, young lady," he stood up in his irritated and burning anger, hands nearly slamming to the desk, "Is that I will not have rapists on my staff. Now," he took a long, deep and calming breath, bringing the anger on his face down to a soothing expression, something she was sure he meant to be a fatherly look in his eyes, "Listen to me, Miss DeLaine…he is no longer on the premises of this university. He cannot harm you, let alone threaten you. If you are still uneasy about the whole situation, I'm certain Commissioner Gordon would be more than happy to arrange police protection…" his grey eyes lifted to the nearest wall, where Gordon stood, listening to the conversation. At the light question in Long's tone, he gave a reassuring smile and nod, "There, you see? Now, my dear child…just tell Commissioner Gordon what happened."_

"_Nothing that is of your concern." She answered, her exposed eye a frigid crystal of blue ice, "I have informed you countless times, Dr. Long, and I will inform the commissioner the same thing: anything that might have occurred was entirely without any threat or demand. He was my counselor, and he was the leading professor of Subliminal Psychology at the university. Would it not make perfect sense that I would spend a great amount of time with the leading professor of my degree?"_

_Her statements clearly made an impression on Gordon, who frowned slightly and raised a brow at the doctor. Long swallowed stiffly, "All the time you spent with him after hours—"_

"_Those meetings are nothing more than the production of imbecilic fantasies," she said shortly, "Our relationship was strictly professional, Commissioner," she spoke directly to him, "He is a brilliant man, and I greatly respect and admire him."_

"_And he took advantage of that." Long's words brought her attention back to him, with an icy glare that made him flinch slightly._

"_No," she said, speaking slowly and very carefully, "He did not. He would never take advantage of me. We learned to trust each other, and to betray that trust would have been a violation of everything we've spent time trying to create. I think your age has made you quite delusional, Doctor."_

_It was Long's turn to glare at her, only to have the anger replaced with a gleam of triumph, "Well then," he said calmly, "It will devastate you to learn that he has not merely taken an extended vacation."_

_Her body stiffened slightly, "Excuse me?"_

"_I'm afraid your beloved professor will not be returning, Miss DeLaine. He has permanently left Gotham State University."_

"_What did you do to him?"_

"_What did __**I**__ do? Miss DeLaine, you offend me! I assure you, I did absolutely nothing to him. Certainly, I considered several of his teaching practices a touch unorthodox," he gave Commissioner Gordon a significant look, making sure he remembered the "experiments" to which he was subtly referring, "But he was one of the best! His classes nearly always passed with flying colors each semester. Really, Miss DeLaine," he chuckled, sitting back in his seat, "What possible motivation would I have had to fire my leading Psychology professor?"_

"_He wouldn't just leave," she said coolly, "So what happened?"_

"_You mean…" the smile slowly faded from his face, a perfect act for the commissioner, "Oh, my poor girl…he never told you." He sighed softly, leaning back forward, "And after you did everything he asked of you. I'm afraid…he simply left. Handed in his resignation and packed up for good."_

"_You're a liar." She spat, her fingers clenching the arm of her chair._

"_My dear child, I would never lie to a student, particularly not one with such a fragile past as yourself. You see…" he reached within the file drawer, pulling out a packet and holding it up for her to see, "Right here, my dear…and it's even signed at the bottom."_

_**Statement of Resignation – Professor Jonathan Crane**_

"_No…" she whispered, "No, it's a lie. This…this is a lie! He wouldn't…he wouldn't do this to me! NO! You're a liar! __**LIAR**__!"_

_Gordon barely had time to call upon his reflexes before there was a holy crash. Papers flew all about; the chair she'd been sitting in previously was overturned, and Dr. Long was nowhere in sight. There was a terrible scuffling down beneath the desk. The police commissioner hurried over to the other side, stunned for a moment at what he saw. The DeLaine girl was on the director, hitting, clawing at anything she could reach—clothing and face alike. Finally, his senses returned to him at the sound of Long's protesting howls. He dove forward._

_James Gordon was, by nature and his profession, not a weak man. He was certainly no Goliath, but the business of having to wrestle criminals down to the pavement and slapping on cuffs was no picnic. He had quite a bit of muscle strength, even for one of his age. He had dealt with mob bosses, hardened, body-builder bodyguards for the crime lords of Gotham, and of course, the always difficult domestic violence situations in which both tempers were flaring and adrenaline was pumping through the veins._

_All that, however, paled utterly in comparison to the vicious strength of this teenage girl. For her skeletal frame and lack of body mass, she was a merciless young viper, thrashing and flailing, desperate to sink tooth and claw into the man who had just delivered such a violent blow to her psyche. Her shrieks and use of words were enough to make even him blush, and he was certain he would be sporting a few facial injuries come tomorrow morning._

"_DeLaine, please!" he implored, trying to calm her, "Just—"_

"_You lying, filthy __**bastard**__! What did you do to him? What did you do? Tell me, you scum—tell me what you did! TELL ME!"_

* * *

"No idea,"

"Surely you must have _some_ ideas as to why you were shipped away to Arkham, Miss DeLaine!" Sunshine protested, "After all, people don't just get tossed away with no reason."

"Oh, really?" Iris asked quietly, "I would beg to differ with that statement, Doctor," her voice was so calm and serious—quite unlike her usual tone—that the blonde psychiatrist had to look up, shock clear on her face.

"I…I don't understand, Miss DeLaine…"

"Look around you," she said calmly, "This entire room is filled with people who have been tossed away by this forgiving, civilized society for absolutely no reason. They just seem to be going younger…not even teenagers are pardoned when they bring society's self-righteous lies to their attention. Instead, they're thrown to the wolves. But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Doctor?"

* * *

"Did you _see_ the look on her face?" Scarface gave a hearty guffaw at the memory, "Way ta go, toots!"

"You're _amazing_, Blue!" Harley beamed, her eyes glassy with awe and admiration, quite similar to the look she was always noted giving the Clown Prince of Crime, "The way you threw it right back in her face, that's how you show 'em who's boss! Three cheers for our baby girl!"

"She's growin' up so fast…" the puppet added with a deep sniffle, snatching the cloth Arnold offered him and wiping his wooden cheek.

The Rogues were gathered in the recreation room, nearly all of them having a good laugh over the end to their group therapy session. The Ventriloquist and Harley were sitting fairly close together; the puppet master sitting on a small chair, the clown curled up beside him on the floor. Pamela sat in the chair closest to them, her slender legs drawn up beside her in the cushioned seat, chin resting on the back of one hand while the other thoughtfully petted the small plant on the window sill. Edward resided along the same wall, a little further away, on a wooden chair, chewing the end of his pencil thoughtfully while staring at a Sudoku puzzle he'd found in the newspaper.

The one they were celebrating, however, was sitting on the couch with a rather somber expression on her face. Her long back resting in the corner of the sofa, long limbs drawn up to her chest, hand rested her angular kneecaps, Iris stared blankly towards the television, though her vacant expression clearly dictated that she was not watching the game show on the screen. A little to her left, the cushions slowly sank in a bit as another body joined her on the couch.

"You know," Harvey said softly, so as to not draw attention from the others. For a voice so low, dark and hoarse, he was surprisingly adept at lowering it to barely above a whisper, "You spit in the faces of these…civilized people that chain us and, when they can get away with it, abuse us…and you do it without a care in the world. Don't tell me you're starting to feel guilty about it, Iris…" he paused, taking in another emotion in her eye, "Or did you remember something that struck a sensitive chord in you?"

"It's nothing." She said softly. She felt rather cool skin on her left cheek; her eyes drifted over, seeing his disfigured hand touching her face with a gentleness no one else dared to hope for.

"Don't try and lie to me, Iris…" the gravely voice was as uncharacteristically gentle as his touch, something she would only experience once or twice in a lifetime, "I used to turn every criminal who had the gall to lie to my face over on their ass. Don't think I won't do the same to you."

She felt a small smile twinge her lips, "Point taken, Mr. Dent." She sighed softly, leaning back and stretching her arms slightly, "I guess she actually got to me a little bit…talking about the events that got us here in the first place. And I just think…maybe I really do belong in here."

"Hey now," he said, tapping her jaw with his index finger, "The only criminal act _you_ engaged in was trying to rip the face off a doddering old fool who provoked you. That could be used as a claim of self-defense, you know." The right side of his face twitched into a half smile as she laughed out loud.

"I don't think Long would see it the same way, Harvey," she said, leaning slightly to rest her head on his broad shoulder, "But I appreciate the sentiment."

"Hey, toots!" Scarface interrupted the moment with a loud call, "C'mon over here! Let's see yer hand at poker again!"

"You've bored me with that game, log," she shot back, "I'm not interested."

"Oh, don't be such a spoil sport…" the puppet protested, "C'mon, doll, show us what yer made of."

She paused, and then an utterly devious smirk came to her face, "Alright…" she said, slowly standing and strolling over to where Scarface, Edward, and Waylon were gathered on the small table, looking at her eagerly, "But we're going to…spice it up a bit, boys." Her face now split into a manic grin, "We're playing…_strip_ poker."

* * *

"I _specifically_ told you, Iris," Joan Leland's voice sounded utterly drained of its usual vigor over the phone line, as though she was slumped in a chair, probably back in her hotel room, fingers rubbing her temple slowly, "Can't you behave yourself for longer than _five_ minutes?"

"I've been on my best behavior for the two weeks you've been gone, Joan," Iris answered smoothly. The teen was currently reclining in a chair, her feet propped up on Dr. Bartholomew's desk. Two guards were standing watch at the door. One was observing her with a stupid grin on his face; the other was still blushing scarlet, eye twitching slightly. Iris was oblivious, or more likely, purposefully ignoring them both. The phone cord was twirling idly between her fingers, as it had been for the last five minutes she'd been on the phone with her designated therapist after the guards walked in on the recreation _activity_ earlier.

"Having yourself and three other male inmates engage in _strip poker_ is not behaving yourself, Iris." Leland said, clearly exasperated, "What in heaven's name were you thinking?"

"This is what you get for leaving me alone for longer than two weeks, Joan," she said calmly, "I promised you I would be a good girl while you were gone, and I was. Then Bartholomew informs me that you've decided to extend your vacation…you didn't specify that I had to be good for any additional time."

"_Doctor_ Bartholomew, Iris," she corrected wearily, "_Try_ to remember your manners."

"When he is deserving of my respect, he'll get it."

"I certainly hope you're not being difficult for Amy…" Leland's voice clearly stated she already suspected (and feared) the answer. Iris merely smirked.

"You should know better than to expect _perfection_ out of little ol' me, Joan," she answered, "I'll be waiting for you to get back…try and hurry before I do something _extra_ naughty."

* * *

"I still say Iris was losing on purpose," Harley said from her cell, barely keeping her giggles out of her voice, "I think she wanted the boys to see what they were missin'!"

"Like I said, Harley girl," Iris called out from her own cell, "The boys can look all they want, but don't touch."

"You don't make it easy to resist temptation, my dearest…" Edward's voice cooed from down the hall, "Exposing all that lovely skin of yours…and so shamelessly too."

"Oh, like you were a saint." Ivy chimed in, "You were practically _ripping_ your clothes off, Nygma!"

"What can I say? I wanted Iris to see what _she_ was missing out on, as long as she's with another man," he let out a dramatic sigh, "It wounds me deeply at the mere thought!"

"Oh, zip it and go to sleep," Iris said, voice slightly muffled as she tugged her shirt over her head, followed by her shorts, folding them into a uniform pile on the stone floor.

"Oh, I will, my darling…know that you shall be in my dreams tonight." Edward's voice trailed off with a low chuckle as he finally settled in. Iris rolled her eyes, though her playful smirk faded slightly as she looked across the hall, to the empty cell off to the right. Jervis had been officially released on parole earlier that morning, right after breakfast. He'd been allowed to say a brief farewell to the others, but he'd seemed quite uneasy about the whole situation, not that Iris could blame him. He was hardly walking back to the open arms of society—rather arms that had never and would never be opened for him. She actually felt a twinge of pity in her for the poor man. After all, Gotham might have been a large city, but with his mimsy luck, poor Jervis would have the unfortunate encounter of running into someone from his past—anyone, in fact, who might make his first taste of freedom less than enjoyable.

Iris' attention was stolen away from the Hatter, drifting over to her cot with the sudden entrance of a new thought. She crouched beside the bed, one hand lightly lifting the mattress with no effort to bare the spring board frame beneath. Her free hand slipped down beneath the cot, taking hold of the thin stack of papers hidden securely on the springs. This was hardly a safe hiding place, but for the next three days, it would suffice. The maintenance did not come in to change out the sheets until the end of the week, so these documents would be secret until then, and when that time came….well, there was a loose stone beneath her bed that no one knew about yet…

She sat on the bed, the sheet pulled over her naked body, knees propped up to create a makeshift desk. Her fingers slowly turned the pages, eyes slowly reading over the comments in Dr. Long's cramped handwriting:

_**To whom it may concern,**_

_** I, Dr. Long, director of Gotham State University, hereby enclose a written statement regarding the causation of the institutionalization of Iris M. DeLaine. Through various sources and private investigation, conducted solely by myself and not any outside individuals, I came to the conclusion that Ms. DeLaine was coerced into a physical relationship with Professor Jonathan Crane. Crane's employment with the university was previously terminated due to his unorthodox and violent experiments with the students in his classes. I have reason to believe that Ms. DeLaine was threatened into providing Crane with his test subjects. Their names are listed below:**_

_**Annabelle Lincoln**_

_**Jeremy Maine**_

_**Carissa and Mary Ashter**_

_**Blake Marc**_

_**Kathleen Marsden**_

_**Julia Winters**_

_**Another student, Jimmy Walters, is also believed to be another helpless victim of Crane's ruthless and unfounded campaign against the student body of Gotham State University. I hold Ms. DeLaine at no fault for this madman's crimes, but I have recently come to the concern that she is no longer capable of functioning properly here due to the severe trauma she has suffered at the hands of the former professor. Institutionalization, I believe, will return Ms. DeLaine to herself and allow her to return to us as healthy and happy as she was before falling under the unfortunate mess of circumstances that led her to assist Crane in his criminal acts.**_

_**It is also my concern, though I hold no proof of such a belief, that Jonathan Crane may have not only settled for forcing Ms. DeLaine into aiding his violence, but might have taken it a step further. He kept her close, both literally and figuratively; it is no secret among the faculty and staff at the university that Crane insisted on Iris meeting with him well after school hours, and did so in the secure privacy of his personal office. I believe Ms. DeLaine may have been threatened and possibly physically forced into a sexual relationship with Crane. As the girl is only sixteen, it is my expressed hope that the doctors at your fine establishment, Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane, will be able to rectify this egregious trauma—both physically and psychologically—and help Iris DeLaine to return quickly to Gotham State, where she is expected to graduate with her Masters, highest honors, top of her class, and eventually pursue a career in Psychology. **_

_**With all gratitude,**_

_**Dr. Long**_

Iris tossed the papers away with cold contempt for their content, watching them flutter about helplessly before landing on the neat pile of clothing beside the bed. _Coerced into a sexual relationship_…that imbecile had no concept to her relationship with her professor—NONE. He knew absolutely nothing, even if he wished for it to be otherwise. Oh, he _wished_ he had even a small taste of the passion that burned between them.

She leaned back, one arm folded beneath her head, the other resting on her stomach. She remembered it…she remembered that night with him—that long, incredible night. They had been equals in mind, or nearly, long before that, their conversations nearly indecipherable to others but so well-known to them, the steps of their intricate, intimate dance. In their minds, if not their bodies, they were already perfectly paced, communicating as colleagues, nearly, instead of as teacher and student. And oh, Iris had known, explored her desperate lust for him…felt her small, youthful body scream out whenever he was close to her, felt herself thrash at night when he was far away. And she thought she'd seen the same in him…wondered at the momentary glances that lasted just longer than a moment, noted the slight tremor in his voice when she would lean closer to him. She wanted to see fire in his eyes, wanted to have him break loose that one tense thread she could somehow sense within him, unleashing…what, she knew not, only that she wanted it.

But their ages…and the scandal it would cause if it had ever been known, what she wanted them to do, what she believed he wanted to do. She knew he was wary of it—not afraid, for she believed he was not afraid of anything, but cautious, secretive. He was too intelligent to let himself be caught and ruined by such foolhardiness. He would not touch her until he was sure he would be able to without attracting attention…would not touch her until she forced his hand…and that night, she had…


	6. Crossing the Line

**A/N: Alright, folks, a few things before we continue on with this chapter, so please direct your attention below:**

**First, I dedicate this entire chapter to Charlotte A. Cavatica. She helped me so immensely with it and I thank you greatly for it!**

**Second, this is the flashback of Iris and Crane's first lovemaking scene. Now, this scene has undergone a few changes...setting and such. Also, as you've probably noticed, it's MUCH longer. Per a request or two, this chapter does not cut off anything......that's right. It's the full monty.**

**Which leads me to my third point, this chapter, as well as this fic, is rated M for a reason. This chapter contains SEXUAL CONTENT! You don't like, you don't read.**

**I think that's about it.....please leave me a nice little review (or long reviews, I like those too) and enjoy Chapter 6!!**

* * *

"_It is love rather than sexual lust or unbridled sexuality if, in addition to the need or want involved, there is also some impulse to give pleasure to the persons thus involved and not merely to use them for our own selfish pleasure."_

_~ Mortimer Adler_

Chapter 6: Crossing the Line

"Iris...Iris, stop…" his face tilted away from her seeking mouth and teasing tongue, taking in several deep breaths in the futile attempt to clear his head, to return his thoughts to rational and calm, "Iris, _**stop**_." The firmness he'd hoped to express in his tone was as futile as his hope to clear his thoughts, "You're…you're drunk…"

"Yes, yes I am…" she whispered, her breath hot and taunting on the sharp angle of his jaw line, "And so are you…" long, black-tipped fingers slithered up his chest, hooking around the knot of his tie.

"Iris, just…just slow down…" fingers were holding her shoulders, pressing, holding tightly but not pushing away. In fact, the fingers were constricting, as though just nearly yearning to yank her forward, to his chest, his racing heart, "Slow down…you're quite intoxicated—"

"By _**you**_," she whispered, her voice low, her tone husky, seductive, "You intoxicate me, Professor….you always have. Ever since we met three years ago…you've been driving me absolutely mad with desire and lust. And I can't hold back anymore…"

"Iris, don't…they'll see—"

"No one can see us, Professor…it's only you and I here….we're finally alone…just as it was meant to be. Why hold yourself back from what you know you want….more than anything? I've seen the look in your eyes when you stare at me; the slight hitch in your breath when we're close together; the soft, nearly unperceivable tremor in your voice when we're speaking in private. You're such a private, rational, restrained man…what will happen if you just…..snap…?" Her fingers reached down and splayed across his pelvic region.

Iris felt herself slam into the wall behind her, her mouth opening to gasp and suddenly finding itself twice as full of tongue as it usually was. Clinging to his shoulders, she whimpered as her professor's hips pressed and rubbed against her.

"Shouldn't have done that, Iris," he growled. "I'm a cool man, a quiet man…but God help me, I want you, and I want you now." Iris choked out a gasp as one of his hands began petting her thigh firmly. "You can't know how badly I want you…I've always wanted you, from the moment I saw you. But I don't think you quite expected this, did you?" He ground against her, his body already hot and hard with need. "No, I don't think you expected your Professor to want you quite this badly. I don't think you expected him to break so completely. I do hope you weren't simply teasing me, Iris, without wanting to continue…I doubt I will be able to stop, now that you've enticed me, minx…" Jonathan laved at her pulse point and worried it between his teeth.

Iris' nails dug into her professor's back as she moaned, canting her hips to better receive his rubbing. "Oh, Professor…I'm not a tease, Professor…not intentionally. I want this…I want you…"

"Yes….yes, you do, don't you, Iris?" his voice was little more than a dark hiss, a low growl in her ear, "You want this more than anything….you wicked temptress, seductive tease, little minx! Since you turned fifteen, you have not ceased in taunting me. I overhear those girls speak such filthy things about you, how you have nothing to offer any man, nothing of any and all worth in your body. But that hasn't stopped you, has it, Miss DeLaine? No, it hasn't. You insist on wearing those clothes, day after day, you wear them shamelessly. Nothing compared to the whores of the university, but you show your figure, taunt me with it. Do you have any comprehension of how many times you have pushed my boundaries before tonight, Iris? Do you have the slightest idea of what horrid desires you invoke within me? How many times I've wanted nothing more than to move closer to you, to let myself be inflamed by your heat? Do you know how utterly filthy my thoughts become when you come to me, looking positively vulnerable and in such desperate need of healing, of being repaired by hands—only my hands, for only they know how to heal your wounds, your agony. And that's why you come to me, isn't it? Because you know that only I will save you, heal you, nurture you back to health. And you drive me positively mad doing it, Iris! You're in my arms, I want to tilt your head back, press my mouth to yours, feel the sensation of your sweet tongue sliding against mine, drinking in your moans as you beg for more, more…I want to fully remove those clothes, to let my hands be heated by your body….that body pressed up against mine in such innocence. Oh, God help me, Iris, I want to pollute that innocence, turn something so pure and gentle into sinful, frenzied passion. I want your unclothed, naked body that I've exposed pressed to my office furniture—the desk, the chair, the couch, it doesn't matter! And tonight, Iris…I'll get my wish….defy me if you possibly can. I assure you, it will only entice me…"

A strangled gasp forced its way past her lips as those spidery hands roughly groped her thighs, forcing her legs apart against the wall. Suddenly his bony frame was between her thighs, thrusting, grinding into her, against her with merciless motions. The rough material of his pants and her denim creating hot friction against each other…the rigid, hot length straining against the confines of his clothing…her body screaming to feel it even more, more…more….it was the most erotic thing she'd ever felt….even all her fantasies could not hope to compare to this. All those nights she had spent in the quiet of her bed, her hands exploring and exciting her body with the heat of her fantasy pumping through her, seeing his face, hearing his voice in her ear….pretending her hands were his, probing, caressing, teasing her flesh…imaging the hot moisture of his tongue sliding over her heated skin…the feel of his body pressed, rocking against hers…but nothing compared to this…

"Feel it, minx!" he growled like some ravenous wolf in her ear, "Feel this! Feel what you've done to me!!"

"Yes, Professor!" Iris gasped, more than happy to allow him to gyrate against her, still a little shocked by his aggression and desire. "I feel it…I can feel how wild you are, how much you want this. I love what I'm doing to you—I never thought it would feel this…" she trailed off in a hiss at particular thrust of their hips, the motion startling a breathy whimper out of her. "Oh, Professor…you can't know how often I've looked in the mirror, dressing, wondering if what I put on will catch your eye; wondering what would be the perfect combination to get you to look at me in just one particular way and make me stay after class. Do you think I could wear something scandalous enough, erotic enough, that it would absolutely shatter that iron restraint of yours? Do you think that I could find a way to make you snap, so much so that you can barely teach for wanting me? It would be amazing to see you, the perfect orator that you are, stutter…in public…and know it was all because of me; because you were distracted by your filthy thoughts of me. Whenever I stay after class, I think, 'This is it, this is the night, he's going to do it…he's going to pull me into his arms and not let me go…' But you never do, do you? Until now. And it's good, Professor, so much better than I could have hoped…I've never felt something like this, never had anyone do this to me. Oh, yes, Professor, I am mostly certainly a virgin…untouched by any living creature but you." Iris kissed him now, swallowing down his groan and accepting the fruit of her labor: his renewed passion, his skeletal hips and stiff heat rubbing, pressing against her own clothed core. "Mm, and I've thought about being in your office with you. Always so serious, so hardworking…" Her palms pressed flat against his chest, she firmly smoothed down his chest, feeling the heat of his skin and the beat of his heart through his clothing. "You always look as if you could use something to…distract you. Entertain you. Please you. Sit on your desk and give you something to experiment with—lie out on your couch and invite you to satisfy all your desirous curiosity. Would you enjoy that, Professor? Having a special subject to run your darkest tests on? And I want it; I want you to expose me, all of me, look at me, explore me, bared and open for you. Don't you want to see? Would you like to tear off all my taunting clothes? I think the time for teasing you is just about up…I wouldn't like to see my dear teacher so teased for long. Oh…Professor…"

"Jonathan," came the growl in her ear, and she nearly moaned. For how long had she wanted to call him that? But she would tease him a little more, until he was positively frantic to hear her call his name.

"Professor! Oh, oh, Professor…Professor Crane…" she murmured, moving her hips to meet the presses of his own, feeling his hot breath on her throat as he held her to this wall, pinned between unyielding plywood and equally unrelenting male…she was trapped, completely caught, and she had no desire whatsoever to escape. She wondered, abruptly, if he would take her up against this very wall, here in this place they had spent so much time teasing each other, so much time almost doing this.

He reached for her throat and bit down firmly, agile hands groping along her thighs, massaging and parting even as they went. "Jonathan," he growled, a distinct reprimand in his tone as he thrust against her mercilessly, trying to drive her wild with need…trying to drive her completely insane…

"Jonathan," she gasped, relenting. "Oh, Jonathan…Jonathan, it's so good, it feels so good…I can't believe I finally…finally got you to do this to me. Don't stop…don't stop, it feels perfect…" She reached up and pressed their panting mouths together, her tongue slipping into his mouth to fumble with his, the innocence in her motions begging for education and training in pleasing him.

A startled groan escaped his lips as her hips suddenly dragged abruptly against his own, striking several sensitive areas on an already aching need. He nearly lost himself then and there, but for the sake of punishment, he kept his composure, as much as he could in this situation. He earned the same gasp from her lips as his hand grabbed her left leg, mounting it over his hip and proceeding to thrust mercilessly.

"You shameless girl," he growled, "You most certainly should not have done that…but you're in such need, aren't you? Poor little girl, so pure and innocent, yet claimed by such animalistic desires…you simply don't know what to do with yourself, do you? Well then…let's see what _**I**_ can do to you. Let's see just how much control I can exercise over you. You like experiments, Miss DeLaine? Consider this an experiment, and you are my test subject, just as you always wanted. Let's see just how badly I can force **you** to break. Let's see just how absolutely mad I can drive you….how far I can push the limits of your sanity, fragile as it must be after all this time. Poor thing, have you been neglected by your professor? He had no idea he was being such an insensitive teacher, ignoring you in such a frenzied need as this. But now that I am no longer so completely ignorant to your needs, allow me to cure you of your other ailments, such as this control you still possess over yourself. I want you to snap just as you forced me to abandon my own control, little Iris, and you will. If I am forced to continue this, and only this for hours…believe me, I will. I want to hear your containment snap, shatter apart like the fragments of a mirror. I want to hear all your vulgar words, pouring from this hot mouth," his tongue ran over her lower lip, making her whimper, "You will tell me all those filthy desires within your own mind, Iris. Tell me all of them…and you will be rewarded by feeling just what you've done to your teacher. And if you please your professor, he will take you, rid you of your virginity entirely. Would you like that, Iris? To feel the pain and pleasure that comes with losing your innocence….and lose it to your professor? No other man…unless you **desire** another man…"

"No!" she gasped, "No, no, no, please!! Please, my teacher, my mentor, my secret desire…I beg of you…rid me of this burden called virginity! Strip me of it, claim me for your own! Please, **please**…I could never desire another man as I desire and lust for you. You who have awakened that in my mind which should never have been touched, examined…released from the cage it was barred within—no man could ever compare to that! Grant me your approval, Professor…please, grant it to me….let me feel you buried within me…..oh, please….Professor, please…."

"Then tell me, little Iris….tell me your desires. Let me hear those filthy, vulgar, lustful words from your mouth…let them entice your teacher. Do not let me grow, impatient, Iris…or I will leave you here…just like this."

Iris fairly whined at his words…would he really do such a thing? It occurred to her that she could afford to gain the upper hand this way, as it was quite possible that he could not stop himself even if he wished to.

But there was the problem of her innocence and her ignorance. If she claimed dominance now, would she be able to do anything with it before he tumbled it away from her once more? If Jonathan was to be believed, she was already driving him mad with as little as the movements of her body and the sounds he drew out of her. Gone was the quiet-mannered, serious professor of psychology—this creature, this sensual beast in her arms was another being entirely, one with no qualms about completely deflowering her. And that was precisely what she wanted.

"Oh, Jonathan…oh my God…I-I want you, inside me," she finally managed. "Deep inside, where we could be connected closer than anyone, anyone could possibly be joined. I want to feel you inside me, my body holding you tight…oh, I'd be so tight around you, Jonathan, it would hurt and I would love it. I want…" Iris drew her hand away from its grip on his back, trusting him to support her weight; the hand slid down to her core, wedging between their frantic hips. She gasped at the extra stimulation, desperate even as clothed as she was. "I've thought about…your hands, right here. Touching me, all of me, making me shake and beg…you'd make me beg, you arrogant beast, wouldn't you? You'd love to hear me crying out for you, pleading with you, promising you anything, anything at all, if you would just put me out of my misery—that wonderful misery you would inflict upon me, all rubbing, pinching hands and probing fingers. Oh, yes, Professor, probing…I would take your fingers inside me, beg you to touch me from within, make me desperate for you with those talented hands. I would beg you to emulate what you would do to me with another part of your body, pressing your fingers in…and out…as slow as you can, to torture me, then faster and harder when you grow impatient." Iris treated his mouth to the same lick he had given her, and was gratified to hear his desperate whimper. She only paused in her monologue a moment, long enough to look up into his face, at his gasping mouth, flushed skin, and half-lidded, lusty eyes glazed, enchanted by her words. His body, still working against her, showed no signs of slowing down, in ecstasy, nearly, because of her words. She could've smirked—oh, he had demanded this of her, but now that she had complied? Who could say she wasn't in complete command, wasn't the dominant partner, controlling him with her words, despite their submissiveness?

"And I've imagined my own hands on you, Professor," she continued, nearly grinning at his soft groan. "Oh, yes, Professor, I've imagined touching you…touching you terribly slowly, so slowly you think to reprimand me, to force me to do as you command, but you cannot. Oh no, I certainly would not want that…perhaps I would have to restrain you somehow. I would force you to endure every touch, every caress and rub and stroke. Can you imagine? I would do it in you office, I would…can you imagine sitting at your desk, enduring these touches from me? And in this day-dream, what if I were to…touch my mouth to you? Oh! Oh, Professor!" she gasped ecstatically as he broke into a particularly rough series of thrusts. "You would like that, wouldn't you? You would like to come to glory with my mouth touching you, wouldn't you? Oh, would you be so enthusiastic to taste me…to put your mouth on my most needy parts, tease me with that wonderful tongue of yours? I've dreamed of it, Professor, and I've imagined doing it to you…getting it from you. I've even…yes, I've even brought myself to ecstasy on the thought. Have you ever done anything as dirty as that? Have you ever thought of me begging you, holding you inside me, with my mouth or my core, touching you with my hands and my lips? Have you ever…oh, but no, you're much too proud a man to endure this…"

"Tell me, Iris…tell me…now…all your thoughts, my beautiful student, all of them…" Oh, his voice was so heavy with lust.

"Have you ever felt release by thinking of me making you beg? Have you? Would it excite you for us to switch roles, you the student and I the teacher? Tell me, Professor—open the doors of that dark mind to me and let me see your desires…"

"_**See**_ them?" he repeated in a low, dark growl, "Oh, you will see them, little pet. I may perhaps grant you the dominating hand in this dance of ours, but not now. You are _**mine**_!"

She yelped as she was suddenly yanked away from the wall and slammed fiercely down onto his desk. The force had stunned her, only physically able to look up at him, standing over her with an odd, dark gleam in his eyes, "Professor…?"

* * *

She was sprawled out over his desk, black hair slightly damp with perspiration, fanned out around face and shoulders. Her legs were tented slightly, though the extension of her long limbs made it impossible for them to fit entirely on the desk in her current position. Her elbows bent, used as a support system, weak as it was though, considering her lungs were gasping for air, chest heaving. Her crimson lips were parted to take in and release the air. Her exposed blue eye was clouded with a haze of lust and something else—something he was curious to know, but pushed away his curiosity for want of her body and lust.

"You imagined this, didn't you, little girl?" he said quietly, pressing his hands to her knees and running them up thighs, the hollow of her hips, where his fingers pressed to the skin exposed above the low riding waist of her jeans, "Yes…you imagined this…laid out across my desk, being touched. And you can't possibly imagine what things I've wanted to do to you, Iris…you've completely destroyed me. Destroyed my self control…and this night, you will be mine. You will beg to be mine, forever. And once I've had you, once I've tasted that sweet victory that stems from stripping you of your innocence entirely, I will never, **ever** let you go. You belong to me, Iris. My student, my lover…mine and only mine."

Her shirt was yanked upward roughly and tossed away with no thought. A twisted smile curled his lips, "Well, well…" he murmured, a manic gleam in his eyes, "It seems you certainly came here with intentions, Miss DeLaine…tell me, are you not wearing undergarments down here as well?" his fingers pressed between her legs for a long moment, relishing her pleading whine, "Or just here?" his mouth latched to her left breast, teeth worrying her soft nipple while his hand groped her other roughly.

"You'll…be the first to find out," Iris gasped, pushing down against his fingers as his mouth attacked her breasts. "Oh, Professor…oh, that's so good…bite, please!" Yes, this had indeed been a fantasy of hers, having this powerful, possessive man ravish her on his desk. She'd never felt so alive—like her neurons were on fire, like her blood was gasoline near an open flame, destined to burn. She would burn forever if she could burn with him…

He was almost lying atop her, now, hips wedged firmly against hers, their bodies jerking as one. His fingers were still toying with her core, even as he lavished attention upon her breasts. Iris tried to clear herself of the haze of lust to be able to do something more than lie on her back and whimper for him…she reached for his tie.

"Ah, ah, ah," he began, not wishing to allow her to such assertiveness, but she dragged him up to her mouth by his tie and, stifling him with a kiss, rapidly unknotted it and began on his shirt. He melted into her embrace for the moment, enjoying the raw passionate sensation of their tongues sliding, before pulling back and fumbling forcefully with the parts beneath her jeans.

"Wanton," he hissed, smirking at her whine and begging hips. "You're a lusty little creature, aren't you? Like a cat in heat…of course. Poor Iris has finally got heat and has had to make do with her hands…when she really wanted…what?"

"Her professor," Iris breathed, rubbing her hips against his teasing hand. "Iris wanted her professor to see her in heat…to want her in heat. She was so desperate, so needy…" She slid her hand down to undo her button and flies, then reached for Jonathan's hand and gently pushed his hand in to touch her, flesh to flesh. She almost screamed as she felt him for the first time. "Iris wanted her professor to see how hot and wet he'd made her…"

"Yes…." His voice was a low hiss in her ear, one of uncontained pleasure and husky arousal, "Yes…I can feel it, Iris…your professor has indeed made you quite hot…very, very hot…and so wet…" her hips thrashed wildly as a long finger slipped inside her, "Ah, ah, ah…none of that, my pet." He chastised lightly, settling himself upon her legs to avoid such movement until his so allowed it, "None of that…else your professor won't be able to feel you properly…ah, that's much better….so much better, now isn't it, pet? Can you feel your teacher's finger inside you? Oh, he simply adores this….this heat…this wetness he is touching…and he made you this way, little one? This is all his work, only his?"

"Only his…" she gasped, her body aching terribly to be able to move, to drive his finger deeper within her to mimic what was soon to come, "Only his, my professor…I swear it. Only his! Only you, my teacher, my mentor…only you have made me feel this way. Oh, god, and it feels so good, Professor!"

"Tell me, Iris…tell me what feels so good….don't hold back…tell me…tell me your thoughts, your needs…what you feel…" the finger slowly began to pull out, only to shush her whine of protest as it was joined by three more, pressing inside her, stretching muscles she didn't even know she had.

"Professor….oh, Professor Crane, I…I don't know if I can describe it. It feels so…so…ah!!! Again, please, again! Oh, my teacher, the things you're doing to me…I never even imagined it would be like this! It's so…incredible…your fingers…your hand…all touching where no man has ever touched before. Yes, my mentor, you are the first—my first. The first to awaken my darker desires, that creature that has lay dormant for so long, and now she is finally breaking free because of you—you have destroyed her chains entirely! The first man to kiss me, the first to touch me—really touch me. Oh, Professor, I beg of you. Cleanse me—cleanse your student. Remove all traces of those…those animals who touched me. I still can recall the feeling….the feeling of their mouths, tongues…their hands and fingers touching me…I felt so filthy…the way they tried to touch me….what they tried to do to me…I fear I am not fit for you, my professor. I fear I am so repulsive…forgive me. Forgive me for being so pitifully weak, Professor…I do not deserve your touch, not after permitting those creatures to have their way with me. I should not be asking one such as you to touch me….this…whore…."

"Whore?" he whispered, disgusted by her words. "Whore?" His mouth fell to hers, tongues and lips tangling as he tried to force his heart down her throat, dig deep inside her and tear that horrible marker out by its roots. "You are no whore, Iris DeLaine...if you are anything, my dear student, it is nothing less than a goddess incarnate." Jonathan flexed his fingers in and around her, brushing repeatedly against her sensitive nub, more interested in pleasuring this poor, wonderful creature than in dominating her. Amidst her gasps, he continued. "Yes, Iris, you must be divine...such beauty has not been seen on the mortal plane. Your mind, so sharp...your personality, so precious, so sweetly stinging and refreshing, a bath in cool water in a desert...your will, so stubborn...except, apparently, when it comes to your professor..." he paused to smirk slightly at her, drinking in the sight of her writhing in pleasure, whimpering in ecstasy beneath him. "Such bravery, such cunning...I have seen the remains of those who cross you, dear child, and I can only imagine how you take your sweet, sweet revenge. But do you need me now, Iris? I am here for you...I will cut this from you, remove this parasite that so saps your mind. I shall drain its blood and ensure that it never, **ever**, attaches to you again. I will heal you...I will take back that which has been torn from you. Cast off your tattered shreds of virginity, Iris...such innocence does not suit one so intelligent, so rare and precious. Give yourself to me, and I will make you whole."

Tears sprang to her eyes, a rare sight for her, and one that would most likely never be seen again. And if it was to be seen, it would be only by him, for it would only be he who would witness her tears, who would bring her to tears only to soothe and hush them away. Oh god, he was her savior, her mentor, her parent….her most precious lover. How could she ever,** ever** ask for more in this world? He would hold her close, now and forever…he would save her, and he would punish those who had done her harm if she was unable to do it herself. Even if she was able to seek her vengeance, perhaps he would bring their screaming, writhing forms to her as a gift, as he had done when he'd taken her to observe his "experiments". Oh god, this man was everything she could ever have asked for…she had been waiting her whole life for him to ask that…and she most certainly was not going to deprive him of his answer.

"Professor…" she whispered, "My professor, my most precious mentor, my savior, my redeemer…you hardly need to ask such a request of me. I have been yours since the day we met. Your intellect, your brilliance, your genius….all of it surrounded me, claimed my attention and my mind in a moment's notice! How can I desire anything else but you, my professor? I've waited my whole, miserable, abused, exploited life for you…and I've been waiting three equally miserable years for you to ask such a question."

She managed to stop his hands, ignoring the look of confusion on his face as she stood up on his desk. Her hands slid downward, hooking around the waist of her pants and pulling down, down, down her legs until they pooled at her ankles. With a light kick, she sent them to the floor, along with her underwear. She lowered herself back to her knees on the desk, level with him now. "Look, Professor Crane…all you see is yours. I am yours…my body, my heart, and my mind. Strip me of this miserable burden called virginity…I have grown far too weary of carrying such a weight upon my shoulders. Remove it, remove my chains…and claim your student for your own…"

"Yes," he fairly groaned, reaching out and running his hands along her sides, over her hips, up her waist, bumping along her ribs, up to the sudden soft swells of her breasts and up and down again. "Oh, yes, Iris…I will break you free, my dear one. It is a sin to keep a woman, a beauty of your caliber so caged—it violates all natural laws and I will not allow the abuse to continue, that I swear."

"Let me see you, Professor…please?"

"In but a moment, Iris…for now, I require your patience." His hands drifted down to caress her thighs. "Before this night passes, my dear student, my sweet creature, you will be mine. Just as I have wished since the moment I saw you…mine, only mine…"

"If you will be only mine in return," Iris sighed, enjoying the warm touch of this passionate man on her body. She felt as though she were being completely cleansed in his touch, all that she had experienced in pain, fear, and humiliation being replaced by the reverent, desirous touch of the man before her. "Will you allow me to call you mine, Professor?"

He smiled, pressing an uncharacteristically gentle kiss to the nape of her neck, "Oh my Iris…my brilliant child…how long have I wanted to hear such a request from you. How long have I been imagining your voice, the look in your eyes as you asked me such a question? So long…so terribly long…far too long…"

"My most beloved Iris…I most assuredly am yours. The first child I ever laid eyes upon and felt something much, much more powerful than loathing or hatred, which I have only ever felt for children as long as I have lived. No, Iris…for you I felt such powerful desire…I have never felt something as heady as the desire and need to feel your skin…the want of your body, the lust for your soul. My student, my most perfect child…you belong to me…and I belong to you. And this vow will soon be consummated…and none will be able to take you from me then…"

"No, Jonathan…" Iris whispered, reaching down to expose him. "Never let them take me away from you. Never let us be parted, my Professor, my ingenious Jonathan…" She leaned out to kiss his mouth, slowly pressing and rubbing her lips against his. "Claim me, Jonathan. Consummate your vow…make me yours, forever. Take away the stain of any others and make me belong to you alone—body and soul."

He bit down into her shoulder then, making her gasp as her hands feverishly tore at his flies, wanting to have him at least open to her gaze, if not yet instead her. Jonathan smirked at her eagerness and lapped at the little blood he'd draw, soothing his bit with his tongue.

"Eager for this, my dear?"

"You have no idea," Iris panted in response. "I want this so badly—ahh! Oh, Jonathan!"

He scissored the fingers that had slid within her quickly. "You're so very tight, Iris…so wet and hot. It would hurt terribly if I entered you without giving you at least a bit of preparation…I cannot avoid hurting you a bit, but I would make this first time pleasurable for you. I can teach you of the ecstasies of pain another time. I'll have to stretch this tight body of yours—make you open enough that I can put myself inside you at all. Are you so ravenous for this, my dear, that you would risk such pain to satisfy your need to be filled?"

"Professor, please!" she gasped, fingers clutching, digging into his skin to the point of nearly breaking flesh, "I beg you…I will gladly swallow the pain of the first entrance…please. Stretch me with this…" her fingers ghosted over his heated desire, "Stretch me with the object of your own desire as you plunge so deep within my own. I will gladly suffer for the pleasure that will soon follow. Please, please, **please**, my teacher, my professor…I cannot stand the wait any longer. I need to feel you within me. I know it will hurt, and I will take such pain for you…do you not comprehend the extent to what I would do for you, Professor? I would gladly take the humiliation of public exile for you…I would shun this cursed, hypocrisy-ridden world and follow you wherever you would so desire to go. I am yours, from now until the end of time itself. Please, I implore you, fill me! I trust you to soothe away whatever pain will come upon me…just **please**!"

Passion within him broiling, Crane pushed Iris back on the desk to lie on her back, propping himself above her, pleased at the needy gasp and jerk as he placed himself at her entrance.

"You are mine," he growled in her ear. "Mine completely…oh, Iris…" Jonathan began to enter her, slowly but unrelentingly, carefully stretching her virgin tightness. Sweat beaded on his brow and it was a definite task to maintain his concentration, to avoid thrusting instantly.

Meanwhile, Iris felt as if she were being torn apart. She let out a high, warbling scream—now pitched high enough to break a window, now nothing more than a whimper, following each of her reactions to his movements. By God, it hurt; not the worst pain she'd ever felt, not by quite a long shot, but a certainly enough to have her gritting her teeth. She almost wanted to stop, almost wanted to beg him to back off, but something held her back: beneath the pain, there was definite satisfaction at being thus filled, at having this man inside her. Iris would not tell him to stop now, not when she was at the brink of all her fantasies.

Eventually, Jonathan found his hilt and they paused, each gasping, sweat-covered and desperate.

"It hurts," Iris whimpered softly. "I knew it would, you told me it would, but it hurts, Professor…"

"My poor dear student," Crane replied, mustering up a bit of imperious for her sake. He stroked her sides softly, pressing a line of kisses down her throat. "You tell me this hurts? Well, your professor to heal you…I wonder what I can do to alleviate such pain…"

Her hand was wrapped around the back of his neck, palm slipping across the layer of sweat covering his skin. Her chest heaved and panted uncontrollably, trying to get some minor sense of herself back. "Professor…" her muscles tightened around him, making him moan, "I…I know you will make the pain go away. I'm…I'm okay…." That wasn't necessarily true, as the pain was still evident, but her underlying need to feel him was far more desperate than the need for pain to be soothed away, "Please…please move…"

"Iris…" he said hesitantly, but her hands tightened around him.

"Please, Professor Crane…please let me feel you move…please…"

He pressed a hot kiss to her pulse, smiling slightly as he felt it quicken with his touch, "Don't worry, my sweet…I'll make you feel things you've never felt before. I swear to you, I will not permit you to feel pain any longer…"

Their panting mouths met once again for a long moment, "Oh, Iris…you…are…mine…"

* * *

Iris had always known the authoritative, dominant quality of her professor—she had known him to be a man of honor and of dignity, a man who commanded respect and even fear out of the worthy, while inspiring contempt and disgust from the ignorant. Jonathan Crane would not hesitate to lie if it suited him, but whatever promises he made, he kept…particularly when it came to her. It was part of what made the man within her so attractive, so cultured and simultaneously savage, so intelligent and manipulative and yet bound by a code of ethics of his own design. He lived for no one, with the permission of no one but himself. Jonathan Crane, Iris felt, was free.

And he was using his code against her, moving and touching and kissing her until she was barely aware of the pain of her first union, completely transported by pleasure and ecstasy. She was his, as he said—utterly his, she could not and would not be another's, not with him touching and holding her as he was.

"I belong to you, Professor," Iris gasped, feeling him moving within her. "I'm yours, I'm yours…"

"Jonathan, sweet child," he replied, voice low and warm and a little bit dangerous. "Call me Jonathan."

"Yes, Jonathan!" she whined, squirming beneath him, "Oh, Jonathan, I never knew I would feel anything like…oh, Jonathan, yes…how can you do this to me so easily? Jonathan…Jonathan, I belong to you, I cannot accept any other…only you, I'm only yours…and you are mine, Jonathan, all mine…"

"Tell me, sweet child…tell me what your professor is doing to you…tell me what you feel….tell me everything…entice him, excite him with those breathless words of yours…"

"Oh, Jonathan…" his name tasted so heavenly, so passionately sweet upon her tongue. How long had she wanted to call him by his name? How long had she wanted him to grant her permission to address him as though they had known each other for years, as though they had grown up together as children, carefree and alive? She had come to him as a child, a child in mind, body and spirit. Yet in the course of three short years, he had taken a stoic, emotionless child and transformed her into a lively, energetic teenager who finally understood what it meant to live life…and really, truly **live** it. And now, here, in this office which they had spent many hours discussing everything from poetry to art, philosophy to music, and done so without a care in the world; upon this desk which they had discussed her assignments, essays…documented the findings for his experiments in journals…discussed her own journal entries, filled with philosophies and private evaluations…this place which had once been a temple of knowledge and education, now it had become a sanctuary for their passion—the most twisted, deviant form of passion known to mankind. And it was simply, truly, absolutely perfect. She could never, ever have asked for anything more than this…she could accept sudden news that she would die with tomorrow's morning light if she knew that he would hold her throughout this night; if she knew that he would keep her against his heated skin, their hearts beating in absolute unison without any discrepancy or flaws…if she could be assured of that, she would welcome death in an instant.

"Iris,"

His low, husky tone pulled her from her thoughts, just in time for her head to snap back, releasing a sharp cry of agonizing pleasure. Oh god, what had he just done to her? God in heaven, what had he…oh god, this felt so good…oh please…

"Talk, Iris…now!" another sharp thrust of the hips produced the same sensation again. Being a logical creature, even in such a situation that was utterly devoid of logic and reason, she knew that if she talked, he would grant her the same sensation again and again, as long as she pleased him.

"Jonathan….oh god, please, again, please, please again! I don't…I don't know what you just did to me…but it feels—oh, **yes**!! There! There, my professor, my mentor, please, right there!! Oh god, what are you doing to me?"

He nearly chuckled at his student's naivety, so strange in one so hardened and worldly. But she was still young, at least in body, though not in mind and spirit…oh, yes, deliciously young. All of the advantages of youth had indeed been poured upon her, this beautiful nymph in his arms, wanton and lusty but so pure, so untainted and uneducated in this most passionate dance. His humor was lost to desperate passion, her nearly-orgasmic cries of pleasure ringing in his ears, her pleading words exciting him more than he had ever been before. To hear her in her pleasure…for how long had he wanted exactly this? To be able to memorize the sounds of her as her sweet body was brought to ecstasy, the way she screamed and begged, moaned and yelped and whimpered for him. Oh, yes, only for him…she was his, and he hers, and she was proving it in the way she could, in totally innocence, drive him nearly to the brink of consciousness with desperation and pleasure.

"Making love to you, my dear Iris," Jonathan growled, eagerly memorizing the desperate whine his name had become on her lips as he moved to thrust against that lovely spot within her that would cause her such ecstasy. "I am inside you, sweet nymph, inside you and driving you mad…making you completely insane. Can you not feel it?" he asked, thrusting sharply and being rewarded with what was nothing less than a scream. "Perhaps you can…yes, you feel your wonderful body contracting with pleasure…have you never been touched here before? Have you lived your whole life, you exotic, sensual, lusty beauty, without ever having been brought to scream this way? It should not seem possible, Iris…I see I have years to make up for. Would you like that? Would you beg, if I told you that doing so would grant you this pleasure?"

"Please, please, please, **please,**" Iris whimpered deliriously in reply. "Oh, God, Jonathan…Jonathan, it's so good…no one's ever…ever touched me like this…no one else ever will again…only you, Jonathan. This part of me only belongs to you…I could not bear to have another touch me like this…please, please don't stop…don't stop for anything…just please, touch me like that again?"

He dipped his tongue into her ear and smirked at her shudder. "No, dear Iris, I would not stop for the world…I would not stop for anything, not with you on my desk this way. Such a good girl you are…such a wonderful woman, a divine creature. For how long have I desired you thus, on this desk? I will see fit that you never look at it again without remembering me doing this to you, right now…along with all the other pleasures I will grant you this night." Jonathan thrust hard several times, hitting her most sensitive interior point with every stroke, to fast for her to even draw breath as he brought her racing to be brink before drawing her back, enjoying her shriek of frustration and lust. "That's right, my dear…scream for this, scream for me. You are mine, Iris, and I have not yet begun to show you the depth of my passion for you…this night has not yet begun, not yet at all…"

Tears were glossing over her exposed eye, a testimony to her whimpering plea, "Professor…Jonathan, please…please, let me come…"

"No," he answered smoothly, "No, Iris…I fear I cannot do that so soon. I'm sure your pleasure is simply maddening right now, but I will not, and cannot allow this pleasure to end so soon. You have yet to taste the full extent of what pleasures I can show you. Now, what kind of teacher would I be if I did not educate you in such pleasures? Surely you would not approve of such lackluster education, my dearest. That's simply dreadful education, coming from a dreadful instructor. Surely you don't want to be so disappointed, my dear? No, of course you don't…I know you far better than that…"

"Jonathan, **please**…I…I don't think I can hold on much longer…"

"Can't hold on?" he repeated, swiping his tongue over her pulse, "Can't hold on? Whatever is the matter, my dear? Can't help yourself any longer? Poor little Iris…perhaps I should remove myself from you…to soothe your terrible little ache…"

"No!" Iris fairly screamed, wrapping her legs around his waist and locking him against her. "No! Don't pull away, don't pull out! Jonathan, please! Just—"

"This?" he replied innocently, thrusting harder than he had before and holding it, gritting his teeth with the effort as she screamed.

"Yes! Yes! Yes! Please, Jonathan!" Oh, she had completely dissolved, or something very like it. All she could seem to manage were affirmations, pleas, and his name. It was so good, almost too good to hear his name on those dark lips. Crane felt as though he'd been waiting a lifetime for this, his whole disgusting, abused life for this one night, this one moment with this one woman…this perfect woman, perfect for him, the pinnacle of the female of his species. There could be no other…no one else at all— and how she was begging for her pleasure from him…

"You are an intelligent girl, Iris," Jonathan panted, driving in and out of her. "Surely you comprehend the methods used in teaching, the types of instruction…the value of homework…tests…the lecture…and of course, the pre-lecture warm-up: designed to stimulate the mind, encourage ideas…provide hints as to the material to be covered…" He thrust deeply within her, aiming for her most sensitive spot with every push. "Consider this your warm up for the evening, Miss DeLaine."

"Yes…yes, Jonathan…" she gasped, grasping onto his shoulders, ankles locking together to bring her hips against his, matching his ruthless pace and thrusts with her own, "Yes…you will educate me for the rest of this night, won't you?" her voice held no authority, little more than a whining plea, "Please…promise me…swear that this is only the beginning…"

"Oh, it most assuredly is, my precious one…" he crooned, "And because it is in fact only the beginning…perhaps I can permit you to do as you so desire…"

Her eyes snapped open, gazing at him with bright and clear irises, desperate and clinging to some small fragment of hope. "If," he continued, "You swear that you will not fight against your professor when he announces for your lessons to continue…." He didn't even need to ask such a thing of her. He knew she would swear to anything he asked of her right now, and he would gladly remind her of such a promise if her stubbornness and defiance returned to her.

"No…no, I will not, I swear it…I will do as you ask of me, Jonathan…I promise, I swear…but oh **please**!" her nails were digging, leaving small crescents upon his skin that would sooner than later break the skin and produce blood.

His teeth scraped over the injuries he had already given her in the heat of passion, "Then come, little one…come for your professor…"

As Iris felt the sweep of her first orgasm drawn from her by the work of another, she reflected on the fact that Jonathan Crane was the best teacher she'd ever had, just before her world shattered.


	7. Dare You Ask

**A/N: Apologies for the delay in updating. Thank you all for your reviews!**

* * *

"_Curiosity is lying in wait for every secret."_

_~ Ralph Waldo Emerson_

Chapter 7: Dare You Ask…

"Iris…? Iris, are you listening?"

"Hmm?" the teen shuddered slightly, looking to see Harley and Ivy staring at her, the blonde looking concerned while the redhead was merely smirking, "What is it?"

"What is it?" Harley repeated, "We've been trying to get your attention for _hours_, Blue! Are ya sick?" she bounced onto the arm of the couch, pressing a hand to her forehead, "She feels hot, Red! We gotta get her to the doctor!!"

"First of all, Harl," Ivy took her hand and turned it around, correcting her attempt at reading the younger girl's temperature with the palm of her hand, "_That_ is how you check a fever, and she's just fine. Second, seeing as we've been in rec time for under thirty minutes, it's hardly possible for you to have been trying to get her attention for hours." Her green eyes looked Iris over with the same expression she doted upon her plants, "You do look a bit wilted, Iris…didn't you sleep last night?"

"Quite well, in fact." Iris said, rubbing the back of her neck with a long-fingered hand, "Best I've slept in months, truthfully…I feel safe attributing my lack of attentiveness and energy to that…oatmeal we were fed this morning."

"You're tellin' me!" Harley said, making a face, "It was yucky and chunky…and the fruit in it was growin' mold! Yuck!"

"Typical," Edward said, walking into the room after freeing his arm from the large guard who had brought him from his private therapy session, "The one morning you decide to brave the food…"

"Braving the food has nothing to do with it," she shot back, "I take your bets on sampling that garbage all the time, because _you_ don't have the backbone to try it for yourself…just like this morning, _Eddie_."

"You know, I believe I have mentioned that rather _dislike_ being called Eddie…" he said with a slight edge to his voice.

"And maybe I'm not so hot about the constant references to your delusions about our future together, and the relentless commentary about my body," she smirked, "Eddie boy…"

"I think I just mentioned, didn't I," he said, voice raising an octave as he spoke, "That I dislike being referred to as _EDDIE_?!?!"

A rather thick book came down at a slant, delivering a cool blow to the puzzle master's temple, "Chill out, Nygma," Harvey growled, "Or I'll start calling you Carrot Head." He sat down beside Iris, crossing one leg over the other for him to prop one book open on his calf. The other, the one responsible for the head injury, he handed to Iris, "Here," he said, "They finally got your copy back from the repair shop."

"Seeing as it just suffered a spinal injury," Iris said, gently stroking over the golden letters etched into the black cover, "Could you try and avoid giving it another injury by denting it against his skull?"

"Injuring the _book_?" Edward pouted, rubbing his bruised head, "Can we discuss the damage that thing just caused my _head_?"

"Don't be such a drama queen," Iris scoffed, "A titanium boulder couldn't dent your head." Smirking slightly as he grumbled and shuffled to the corner with his crossword puzzle, Iris looked back down at the book, smiling fondly at the letters once again: _**The Complete Works of Edgar Allen Poe**_. Her long fingers slipped over the edge of the front cover, pulling it and several pages back. The pages were nearly feather light as she let them slip through her index and middle fingers, eyes perusing for one poem in—

Found it.

She smiled with satisfaction and propped the book up against her knee, her eyes slowly running over the title printed upon the page before looking down at the words beneath. Her lips silently spoke the words, memorizing the feel of them upon her tongue.

_Take this kiss upon the brow!_

_And, in parting from you now,_

_Thus much let me avow—_

_You are not wrong, who deem_

_That my days have been a dream;_

_Yet if hope has flown away_

_In a night, or in a day,_

_In a vision, or in none,_

_Is it therefore the less gone?_

"_All that we see or seem_…" she whispered aloud, her voice only audible to the one sitting closest to her, and Harvey merely smiled to himself at the low, nearly melodious whisper form her lips, "…_is but a dream within a dream_…"

"Hey, Iris, guess what?" Waylon's gruff voice, sounding unusually ecstatic, broke through the moment. She looked up to confirm who had called her name, marked her page with a small scrap of paper she'd found discarded in the hallway, and finally turned her attention to the former wrestler.

"What is it, Waylon?" she asked.

"Just heard the white coats sayin' Doc Sunny's off today," he said, "Guess who's fillin' in for her?"

"Do tell…" Iris said, sitting up a bit more with intrigue on her face. He grinned.

"Doc Leland's back."

* * *

Joan Leland hurried down the halls of Arkham, trying to rearrange her files with one hand (the same hand attached to the arm holding said files) and fix a few stray hairs with the other. She was five minutes late for group therapy, thanks to that wretched baggage claim attendant. That positively impertinent woman…Joan would be making a phone call to management after the therapy session!

She was so caught up in her thoughts, even when she was opening the door to the designated room, that the grey and blonde blur that hurled itself into her arms caught her entirely off guard, sending her flailing backwards into the nearest wall. Papers went everywhere.

"Harley, let her go," she could hear Iris' rather smug voice from inside the room, "It makes no sense to kill her after we've only just got her back…and you're about to suffocate her with those hugs of yours."

"But I missed her!" the blonde pouted, "We _all_ missed you, Dr. Leland!! It's _sooo_ good to have you back, back, back!!!"

"I'm flattered, Harley," Joan managed to gasp before prying the clinging arms from around her waist, "I've missed you too," she added after spotting the blonde's quivering lip. That pout was infamous in the asylum…no wonder she always got the court's sympathy, no matter what sort of havoc she had wrecked to get herself back in front of a judge.

"Glad to have you back, Doctor," Edward said with a bow from his seat, "A pity you couldn't have come back yesterday…you missed the _grand_ showing…"

"So I heard," the doctor answered, throwing the guilty party a look, "I trust, Miss DeLaine, that you will not be engaging in such blatant displays in public again?"

"Hardly anything as forward as that, I assure you, Joan," Iris said, stretching like a cat before settling against Edward's shoulder, "If, of course, you put a rush on the release of a certain someone from solitary confinement…"

"He is scheduled to stay in there until ten o'clock tonight, Iris," she said heavily, rubbing her head with a hand, "No later, no sooner. Now, behave yourself, or you might be joining him—in a straitjacket, to ensure that you keep your hands to yourself."

"I'll get out of it in less than thirty seconds, want to time me?" she frowned at Iris' saucy remark, then lowered her eyes to the files, "Now then…it seems Amy was conducting her own sessions with you all…do you care to finish those, or shall we continue with what we were discussing before my rather untimely departure?"

Judging by the looks on the faces around her, she easily guessed the answer to that, "Very well…" she said, seeming rather pleased to carry out her second option, "I think we left off with…Mr. Morgan. You know the process…and I expect _all_ of you to say your full names this time." Ignoring the distinct muttering of disagreement, she smiled pleasantly at Waylon, who looked rather awkward at being put under the spotlight, "Go on, Mr. Morgan."

* * *

Some week or so before Joan Leland had received a call regarding an aunt, stricken with measles, she had been sitting in her office, reviewing the files she had on the Rouge inmates and had come to a rather startling realization. Reading about her patients was one matter, but to actually hear them discuss their lives was another topic altogether. Group therapy typically involved her sitting there, reading the file of the individual to them, essentially, and receiving little more than a noncommittal sound every now and then. So, she decided, perhaps it was time for something different. Instead of the traditional manner of doing things, she compiled a list of personal characteristics, and the next session of group therapy, she showed the list to the Rouges and announced they would now be listing off those characteristics to the group. The list was quite simple, but poked enough at the tip of the iceberg that she could learn a few things about them and use them in private therapy sessions later. The list, currently sitting in her lap, was as followed:

**1. Name (full)**

**2. Place/Date of Birth**

**3. Parents' Names**

**4. Favorite Color**

**5. Hobbies**

**6. Favorite Childhood Memory**

**7. What are your plans after Arkham?**

While the inmates had been less than enthusiastic about this latest intrusion into their personal lives, Leland was quite confident that after the last two sessions with Dr. Sunshine, they would be _very_ willing to return to her method. So far, she was right. Smiling to herself, she was busy jotting down the answers to the Rouges' questions.

"_Annabelle_?" Ivy was currently fighting a painful bout of contained laughter, "Annabelle? You never told me that was your middle name, Harley."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah…" the blonde muttered, face a bright shade of red that imitated candy red apples, "Harleen Annabelle Quinnzell…Momma always did like the rhyming and complicated names…"

Dr. Leland made a note, forcing herself not to smile at the rather extravagant name, "Alright, Harley…next question, if you please?"

She sighed, crossing her arms over her chest with a slight scowl, "Born in the middle of May—fourteenth or something like that…1984. Think I was born in some back road, hick-ville place, then moved here to Gotham…I was nine," she added to spare herself the indignity of being asked.

"Go on, Harley…"

"Momma was named Janie, Daddy was named Marvin…" she shot a glare at Croc, who had sniggered slightly, "Least I know my daddy's name, Croc man!"

"Kids," Iris said dryly, currently examining her nails under the florescent lights, "If you can't play nice, you can't play together. Go on, Harl…what's your favorite color?"

"PINK!" she beamed, eyes bright at the thought of the vivid shade which made Ivy cringe and Iris roll her eyes lightly, "Um…hobbies…well, I like to roller skate—or blade, whichever I can find—and I like to dance with music! Lots and lots of music! And…lemme think…ooh! I like to play with my babies!!!"

"Knew that one was coming," Pamela commented under her breath.

"And I remember this one time when I was really little, Daddy took me to the zoo! It was so cool…they had all kinds of animals, and pretty birds…and then it started raining, and when it was over, we got to go out and see a rainbow!!"

Leland made a few more notes; so far, she deduced as she perused her previous notes, there was nothing of much use to her…at least, nothing that would prove useful during private therapy sessions. She expected this, of course. While it might seem at first like the inmates were divulging information, it was really, in essence, nothing that couldn't be discovered merely by looking at their file…or through common sense. For example, it hardly took a brilliant mind to come to a conclusion that Harley Quinn loved bright colors, such as flowers and rainbows, and all sorts of animals, especially infant animals. Leland privately sighed and waited for the blonde to finish the last question.

"…and maybe I could be a teacher…I might be able to get a job as a preschool teacher!" Harley was saying, "I could teach them how to read and write and color and sing and play on the monkey bars and all kinds of things!! And if that doesn't work out, maybe I'd just go back to being a shrink. It worked before after all…"

"Before you got yourself wrapped around the finger of a certain clown," Ivy muttered under her breath. If Harley heard the comment, she ignored it and continued blissfully detailing how much excitement she'd found when she was studying psychology at the University. Once again, Leland was hearing nothing that would be very beneficial, so she merely smiled and nodded, letting the clown girl chatter to her heart's content. Her attention inadvertently drifted to Iris, who had moved from Edward's shoulder and was currently sitting cross-legged in her seat. Her angular arm was propped up on the thin rim of her seat, chin propped up on her up-turned palm. Her eyes were neither vacant nor irritated, merely calm and relaxed, as though waiting for the inevitable time when she would be the one under the spotlight. And that time was now.

"Very good, Harley," Leland said with a pleased smile on her face, though she was, in truth, not entirely pleased with the lack of progress she was having with the inmates, "Alright, Iris…it's your turn now." She cast a disapproving look on the scatter of comments that spread at her words. All eyes turned to Iris expectantly.

* * *

Iris knew that she was officially under the spotlight of not only her psychiatrist, but also every inmate in the room. She knew they would act this way. She kept her personal life completely shut away; only one person had the key to the Pandora's Box of her emotions, and he wasn't here anymore to save her from the prying and invasive questioning…not like he'd been before.

"_Iris," Dr. Leland said heavily, "This is the tenth time since you've come here that you have refused to follow simple instructions from the orderlies. They are not asking you to jump through hoops here…can't you do as they ask for once in your life?"_

"_I have no desire to bow down like some submissive dog for your annual examinations, Doctor," she replied shortly, "Inmate or not, those procedures are a violation of my personal rights, and I have the right to refuse such an examination if I so choose."_

"_Has it occurred to you," the doctor said, fixing her with the "scolding mother" look, "That we are conducting such examinations for your personal health?"_

"_Maybe that was the intention that is written down on paper, Doctor, but, to quote the phrase, to __**say**__ is not necessarily to __**do**__…your little investigations are quite degrading. If I wanted to give strangers a show, I would have stayed in high school."_

"_And just what do you mean by that comment, Iris?" Leland said, seeing an opening and jumping for it, "Did you come across certain individuals during your school years who humiliated you?"_

_She was ready for the retort clearly forming on Iris' lips, only to have those plans interrupted entirely by a hand—pale and wide, with long, spidery fingers quite similar to Iris'—that came down upon the teenager's shoulder, clasping firmly, nearly roughly. She jerked slightly, her head turned to meet a pair of jet black eyes that possessed a silent command. Leland was personally unsure whether or not there was evidence in those eyes of some threat that might befall Iris should she not remain silent, but there was something in those eyes that silenced Iris' tongue. She answered with a slight drop of the head, leaning back in her seat, relaxed and serene as could be. _

_Those black eyes turned to the doctor, who was unable to hide her disappointment at losing such an ample opportunity, "Apologies for intruding on your plans, __**Doctor**__," a voice said quietly, deadly quiet, "But that is none of your concern. Perhaps we might return group therapy to being about the __**group**__?"_

"Iris? Come on, now, we haven't much time, and you're the only one who hasn't gone." Leland tapped the end of her pen on the clipboard rather impatiently, "Come along, let's not keep the group waiting."

"Don't you mean, keep _you_ waiting, Doctor?" she asked quietly, her eyes boring into the glass panes of the window, as though considering shattering them.

"Iris, really now…if you would prefer this to be done with another doctor, I'm sure Doctor Sunshine would be happy to—"

"There isn't much in this world that would not make Amy Sunshine happy, I'm sure," Iris snapped, her eyes darting viciously to the doctor, "Iris Mara DeLaine, born October 31st, 1993 in Gotham City, New York. Parents are Marcus and Maria DeLaine, and their professions are of no relevance, so do not ask. _Preferred_ color is black or teal—do _not_ use the term **favorite**, Dr. Leland, it is quite childish and demeaning. I enjoy three things in this otherwise degrading and self-righteous world: reading, keeping small company, and above all, being free to do things as I please, when I please to do them, and to do them without interference. My childhood consisted of attending gala after gala after gala; I was educated by tutors from all over the world, especially Europe and Africa; my parents were often quite busy with their own affairs, leaving me to amuse myself, as I desired—and no, it did not make me resentful or injure me psychologically in any sort of manner. If you can find a favorite memory from that list, Doctor, I congratulate you. _Does that answer your questions_?"

There was silence in the room, followed by a low whistle from Edward and a short bout of applause from Waylon. Joan took a long breath, calming herself before answering with a quiet shake of the head. Iris nodded crisply, "Then are we free to go? We are already five minutes over the time constraint."

"In a moment, Iris," she said softly, "I have something to tell all of you. Tomorrow afternoon, a group of students from the Criminal Psychology classes at Gotham State University will be coming to Arkham to observe you all. Now, Dr. Arkham—"

"Did someone forget to mention to the university that this place _isn't_ a petting zoo?" Ivy asked with a tight edge to her voice. Leland sighed, having predicted this response, and continued.

"Dr. Arkham has decided that it would be most beneficial to the students, as they will be able to observe you in your daily routines…"

"Oh yes," Edward cut in sarcastically, "Up against the wall, march down to breakfast; back up against the wall, back to the cell. Sit and do nothing for three hours. Up against the wall, down to rec time. Up against the wall, go to public humiliation. Return to the wall, march to lunch. Back to the wall, back to the cell. Die of boredom for a few more hours, then it's back to the wall, dinner, rec time, wall and cell again. They'll be positively enthralled."

"Look," Leland said, officially exasperated by now, "I know you all don't appreciate having Gotham's youth come here and…well, I suppose _gawk_ at you. But let's be realistic here! You all need to be prepared for how people might view you once you're released back into your natural habitat."

Iris raised her exposed brow higher than it already was, "What are we, brook trout?"

* * *

"Having a pack of uneducated, ill-mannered, sniveling creatures crawling all over this place, gawking at us like we're animals at the zoo…" Pamela's voice was at its iciest level yet, "And I thought this miserable place couldn't sink any lower."

"Ah, dearest Pamela," Edward said from his cell, currently twirling a pen between his fingers with idle casualty, "Have you not yet learned the hard truth that the world is overflowing with ways to completely obliterate our pride and turn us into humble servants?"

"And the answer to that puzzle, Edward," Iris answered, "Is to stick them hard and where it hurts before they can do the same to you."

"Watch what you say, darling," the Riddler replied in tones of mock concern, "You might get something added to your sentence for speaking like that."

"To hell with my sentence," came her short and blunt answer, "I've been used as a bloody pincushion for far too long, and I'm damn tired of it! If it's the last thing I do, I'll take their self-righteous, ego-centric, condescending attitudes and stick it right up their—"

"Iris DeLaine, you watch that tongue of yours. It's quite improper for a lady of your age and status to be speaking like that, especially with that language."

"People of my age have been speaking this way since hitting puberty; my _status_ was taken away when I was dumped in this miserable place," she smirked, pressing herself in a mildly suggestive way up against the glass-paned wall of her cell, looking with a sultry eye at the newcomer, escorted by two guards on either side, "And you absolutely _love_ it when I talk this way…" she added in a low purr.

A smirk came to the man's angular face, stepping away from his bulky, uniformed escorts to set a hand over hers on the glass wall, silently cursing the cold, unyielding barrier, "That I do…" Professor Jonathan Crane smiled—a smile that quite matched his former student's, with a more defined accent of sinister glee, "That I do indeed…"


	8. Visiting Rights

"_Tutors who make youth learned do not always make them victorious."_

_~ Samuel Richardson_

Chapter 8: Visiting Rights

"You're going to attract too much attention with those sounds of yours…"

"I couldn't _help it_. And besides…you weren't exactly _quiet_ yourself, Professor…"

"That, my dear, is entirely _your_ fault…" his thumb ran over the sharp angle of her jaw, over the low area of her cheek and over her lower lip, where his fingertip was awarded a soft, chaste kiss. The professor's angular mouth turned up in a smile, as tender as it could be. This was the smile that only she was privy to witness…something she held in her mind with no small smugness, knowing only she could make the Master of Fear smile as he did when he looked at her.

Professor and student lay on Iris' cot, the sheen of sweat on both bodies slowly cooling and drying against the thin bedclothes, which were drawn up partially, leaving their upper bodies naked and bare for each other's chaste and gracious caresses in the aftermath of their lovemaking. Many a guard had his suspicions about what went on in those two cells on any given night, and all three main doctors in Arkham had their own thoughts on the matter, but all parties were missing one crucial item: evidence. And so, the heated passion that occurred in their beds remained a secret, as it should always be.

She was lying halfway on his chest, their torsos meeting; the edges of their hips nudging one another quite innocently. Her black mane of hair, now dampened with perspiration, tumbled over her shoulder and spilled over his thin, narrow chest. One of his hands reached up, playing through the strands idly, with a lazy smile on his lips. His other hand rested on the small of her back, long fingers splayed out over the damp skin. Her right hand was busy tracing lazy and meaningless patterns in his skin; her left was running two or three fingers over the details of his face. This was territory she was quite familiar with, but exploring it, rememorizing the fine details…it was something she could never grow tired of doing. Her fingertips seemed drawn, magnet-like, to the sharp angle of his face, down to his jaw; the high arch of his brow, the smooth slope of his eyes, over the jut of his nose, and finally over the thin, warm mouth that spoke words of both powerful wisdom and hypnotic seduction.

"Believe me, Professor…" she murmured, setting a quiet kiss to his collarbone, "I hold that knowledge with utmost pride. Who else can say they make the Lord of Terror scream like that…?"

"No one," he answered, catching her hand as it made its way up his chest, pressing the same kiss she'd given him to the base of her wrist, where he could feel her pulse slowing to a steady beat, "Not a single soul in this otherwise depraved city can make such a claim…not even the great Dark Knight himself."

"Oh, don't bring him into this…" she whispered into the junction of his neck and shoulder, "I still owe him for injuring your wrist last time…" her hand—the one not currently wrapped in his long fingers—reached down and caressed his right hand, "You're lucky he didn't break something…"

"I've endured broken bones before, Iris, and I will most certainly deal with more in time to come," he smiled, resting his pointed chin on the top of her dark head, "But your loyalty to your old professor is flattering, as always."

"Oh, stop calling yourself old," she murmured, curling into him. Her body already hinted to the need for sleep, but her mind would not permit it…not quite yet, "You haven't even made the forty-year mark yet."

"Perhaps not, Iris," he said, hiding the smile twitching his lips with her statement, "But it will be…good Lord, less than two years now."

"You could be two hundred years old and it wouldn't change a thing, Professor," she whispered, her voice weighing with her exhaustion, "It can not, will not ever change us."

"I had no idea you were capable of such…sentimental phrasing, Iris…" his brow cocked in mild amusement, "Really…they could quote you on a Hallmark card."

"Oh, shut up…" she managed to murmur before finally slipping from consciousness.

* * *

"Alright, I want your attention, all of you!" Dr. Arkham strode down the hallway, marching in a manner that did a poor imitation of an army sergeant. His eyes swept, narrowed, over the entire Rogue Gallery, all still within their cells, "Now then…the fine students of Gotham State University will be arriving in less than half an hour to conduct their observations. They will _only_ be maneuvering through this designated corridor, and they will be remaining with us for the remainder of the day, until 6 pm, when you all have your dinner. Now, there are some rules we need to discuss," he reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a short list with an over-dramatic flourish, "There are only three rules, so it ought to be simple enough for even you all to remember."

He cleared his throat obnoxiously, "Rule number one: speak to the students only when you are spoken to. They are here to conduct a determination about how well our facilities work with you people, and I expect you to answer their questions truthfully _and_ in a manner that well represents this establishment."

"Rule number two: be on your best behavior. You are not only representing yourselves, but you are demonstrating the effects of Arkham's treatment processes. Any ill-mannered individual will be spending the next week to month—depending on the poorness of their behavior—in solitary confinement. You all are adults, and you shall conduct yourselves as such."

"Rule number three: absolutely, positively, one-hundred percent _**NO**_ tools characteristic of your particular…_traits_ are to be used! You should not have any such things as it is, but seeing as I can no longer rely on security," he cast a glare over at a few guards who shifted nervously, looking sheepish, "I am counting on you all to act like adults. Any questions?"

"I have a question, Dr. Arkham," Iris called from a few feet away. He sighed heavily, seeming to dread to worst from the youngest inmate.

"Yes, Miss DeLaine?"

"In case we might need them…where exactly will the doctors be keeping our balls?"

A loud chorus of laughter erupted throughout the cells. Arkham scowled and stalked out, muttering something under his breath that sounded very much like, "impudent, insolent ruffians…"

The laughter died down after a while, and Dr. Leland strolled along the hall, checking in on the individual Rogues until the students arrived. Each of them had received specific instructions to clean their cells earlier that morning, after breakfast. Leland personally didn't think the Rogues owned enough to make a mess in their cells; the only Rogues who owned much of anything were Miss Isley and Iris DeLaine, although Professor Crane also had his share of books. That being said, those three were also the most organized inmates in the asylum. Pamela Isley took far too much pride and devotion in her plants to allow her cell to become disorderly and thus inhabitable for the vegetation; Iris and Professor Crane were borderline sticklers for cleanliness. Everything had its place in their cells, and Joan was willing to bet that if she could see Crane's former office, or Iris' personal residence, everything would be just as neat and trim as it was in the cells.

She might have paused outside Iris' cell as she passed it, but frankly, what she saw inside was nothing of concern—more specifically, it was nothing she didn't see in the rec room, in the cafeteria, and in group therapy. Professor Crane's cell, which was located directly beside Iris', was vacant, for the professor was inside the cell of his former student, sitting with his back nearly upright against the brick wall, his gangly legs stretched out to the very edge of the cot, knees tented slightly to keep his ankles from slipping off the bed. Between his long limbs was Iris, her back to his chest, head rested on his chest. One arm of his was wrapped loosely around her waist, their fingers entwined and resting on her stomach.

"You might see some of your old students, Professor," she said softly as Leland walked past, "God knows over half the class had to repeat the course."

"Hmm…" he gave a rather twisted smile at the thought, "What a lovely reunion that will be, don't you think so, my pet?" she answered with a mute nod and soft nuzzle to his shoulder, "You've been quite the affectionate little thing since last night, Iris…this is quite unlike you."

"What can I say?" she shrugged, "We miss you when you're gone."

"What's all this _we_?" Crane raised a brow, looking down at her as she lifted her head to better look at him.

"Come now, Professor, must I really explain it to you? Surely the student has not bypassed the professor with a simple little statement like that."

He shook his head, unable to keep the smirk from his lips any longer. He leaned down, catching her mouth in his kiss for a brief moment, "_You_ miss your professor…"

"I do,"

"Look alive, kids," Edward called out, "The youngsters approach us."

"How'd you know?" Harley asked, sitting upright in her cell, pigtails twirling around her face.

"How can you _not_ hear them, Harl?" Iris answered, reluctantly prying herself from Crane's arms, hushing his growl of protest with a soft touch to the lips, "They make enough nonsensical noise to wake the dead."

"Remember the rules now," Dr. Leland said as she passed through the hall one more time, "And one more thing Dr. Arkham forgot to mention: the students were given an opportunity to have a half-hour long interview with each of you. And the number of students is directly proportional to the number of you all, so don't even hope that you might get out of this." Before the inmates could start to protest, the doctor took her place in the center of the hall, hands neatly clasped in front of her, eyes turned to the doors.

The students came in, a large mass of various heights and colored clothing, so different from the inmates who would have been instructed to enter single file, a straight line of grey, the only varying color being their hair pigment. Dr. Leland stretched out her hand to greet a bald man of average height, wearing a neat black suit and pale yellow shirt. His thick-framed, square shaped glasses rested high on the bridge of his round nose, beneath which rested a pair of thick lips and bristled mustache.

"You must be Professor Carmen," Leland was saying pleasantly, "I welcome you and your students to Arkham."

Iris felt her professor's hand contract slightly, unintentionally pinching her thigh. She reached down, setting her hand over his gently, stroking his fingers with her thumb. She knew he remembered Carmen all too well. On the other hand, she privately reasoned, the students could have been accompanied by Dr. Long. And if that had been the case, she knew she couldn't have even prayed that Jonathan would keep himself collected.

"And I thank you for your _generous_ hospitality, Dr. Leland," he replied in that sugary sweet tone that made Iris and Crane cringe visibly, "Well then, we shan't waste time…shall we go about our tour first?"

"Of course," she smiled, giving Iris a meaningful look before stepping backwards, indicating for them to follow, "Please, come this way. As you can see, this is where the so-called Rogue Gallery lives…"

Her voice was slightly drowned out by a chorus of childish coos and murmurs as the group walked past the cells. Their eyes were wide, their mouths agape. It was all reminiscent of toddlers wandering through a petting zoo. One could even see their hands twitching, as though itching to press up against the glass, faces pressed hard to the paned wall to create smudges and gawk stupidly at the inmates.

"Look, it's Poison Ivy…"

"And the Riddler…"

"Isn't that the crocodile man?"

"Ooh! It's Two-Face!"

"Look, look! Isn't that Professor Crane?"

"Is that _DeLaine_ with him?"

"Told you they were gettin' it on! Pay up!"

Iris turned on her side, her back facing the students. Her right arm slipped around his narrow hips and tightened, almost harder than normal. While the gesture caused him no discomfort (he had scratches on his back from her nails that caused more pain than this), he was quite curious about her actions and looked down. Her thin brows were furrowed, creating a deep crease down the center of her pale forehead. He set a hand to her shoulder, stroking slowly with his thumb.

"I feel exposed…" she hissed softly.

He merely blinked, "Hush, Iris…it will pass soon enough."

* * *

"Up and at 'em, DeLaine," Officer Jameson said as he opened the cell door, "C'mon now…it's your turn with the kids. Let her go, Crane."

He was answered with a dark glare and low, primal growl from the professor that made him nearly jump out of his skin. Iris, however, gently pried herself from Jonathan's arms and walked towards the guard with all grace and poise. He started to reach for the cuffs dangling around his belt, but stopped himself. He knew DeLaine wasn't going to try anything; her record assured him of that much. Taking her securely by the upper arm, he steered her from the cell.

Iris had only been down this way once before: when she was admitted for institutionalization at Arkham Asylum. It was a long walk, down a series of long hallways; the first hall was cleared of cells, the walls lined with photos of various staff and faculty. After that, it was down two more halls, these housing inmates with lesser crimes on their records, and finally down a final hall that contained offices. She passed by one office, her eyes drifting over to see Dr. Arkham inside, speaking one the phone and looking mildly pleased about something—probably a new grant or some other source of money to line his pockets.

_

* * *

_

_The large, broad hands of the commissioner rested on her shoulders, firm but carrying a small hint of understanding, even sympathy. It was a rare skill to distinguish between sympathy and pity, but Iris had plenty of experience in such a field. This man had sympathy for her, most likely a result of having a daughter only a few years older than herself. She had met Barbara Gordon on several occasions. She considered her fairly pleasant company when opportunity allowed it, as the two girls had entirely different agendas and social orientations. All the same, the redhead was friendly—not overly, even falsely friendly like the socialites on campus, and Iris had enjoyed the occasional talk over a cup of tea at a little shop down the block from Iris' dormitory. _

"_Here we are, Miss DeLaine," Gordon said, his voice far kinder than the guard who had directed them down to this location. That man had given iris a condescending sneer even as they were walking away. She suspected he gave those to all the inmates. The commissioner gently guided her into a small office, where an older man dressed in a suit under a lab coat was sitting at a large desk, head bowed over some papers. Gordon rapped lightly twice on the door._

"_Ah," the other man said, sitting back slowly as though to take Iris in fully, eyes darting up and down her figure. She could already see that he considered her no threat from her physical appearance, "So this must be Miss Iris DeLaine. Welcome to our fine establishment, my dear, I was just reading over the letter from Dr. Long." he indicated the paper on top of the pile, "He seems to have complete faith that you will recover quickly and return to the university."_

"_That's reassuring," she said quietly, her eyes boring into his with cold indifference, "Seeing as he is the one who sent me here to begin with."_

"_Oh, come now, my dear girl," he said, setting a hand on her shoulder. His touch was cold and pasty, "It's all for your benefit. A year or so here with our services, and you'll be back to your old self in no time."_

_She shrugged her shoulder out of his hold, contempt etched into her features, "Yes indeed, Dr. Arkham…I've seen just how well your services work—not to mention your security. You know, I think I might have calculated that an inmate escapes once every month."_

_Gordon cleared his throat, "Perhaps we ought to get Miss DeLaine settled, Doctor? She's had a long day…she's just tired."_

"_Of course…" Arkham answered, though his voice was tighter than before, "Right this way…"_

* * *

"Well, well, well…" Iris murmured as she entered the private interview room—typically reserved for police interrogations of the inmates and such, "Richard 'Dick' Grayson…" she slid gracefully into the metal chair waiting for her, "And to what do I owe this most unexpected visit?"

"Consider it a 'thank you' visit for saving my grade in Psychology," he said with the charming grin that had half the female student population on their knees, though this smile had a touch of shyness in it that didn't appear with other women, "I…I wanted to show you, as my former tutor and all…" he reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, folded neatly, and handed it to her. He watched with undisguised anticipation as she unfolded the document and looked down at the print.

While she was preoccupied, his eyes drifted over her, taking in the details with slight concern for her well-being. Iris seemed thinner than he'd last seen her—which was something to take in consideration, as there weren't many people who were thinner than Iris DeLaine and still breathing. Her skin, though a naturally pale tone that had many people naming her a vampire of sorts, seemed to be stretched over her bones, and more so than usual. Admittedly, it was hard for Dick to distinguish whether or not she had actually lost weight or whether these were details that he hadn't noticed before in whatever clothes she'd been wearing on campus. His worries over her physical health aside, she looked as he remembered—dark mane of hair spilling over the shoulders, down the back, over her face; the sharp, impressively mature aspects of her face; the vivid, piercing glow of her blue eye…it was all the same. Arkham had not broken her yet…and he doubted it would ever do so—

A sudden cheer of laughter broke his thoughts. He jumped slightly in his seat, only to have her hand and long fingers—he remembered watching those hands glide over textbook and notebook pages during their study sessions—clasp down on his head, tussling his black hair almost playfully. He suddenly realized he had not heard her laugh, not once since they had been classmates or tutor and "tutoree". He'd seen her smile slightly (a rare sight in itself) but never laugh. It was not unpleasant…a deep and rich sound, yet light and airy in its own right. She sounded as though she hadn't laughed since she was admitted to Arkham.

"Well done!" she said, clasping his shoulder in a friendly grip, "Well done, well done, Dick…I can safely say you have earned my _highly_ pleased approval with this." She ran a finger down over the column of A's, with one or two B's in the mix toward the earlier records, "And look at this…you've kept these grades since our sessions ended. Seems my lessons made some sort of impact on you, hm?"

"You bet they did," he grinned, so pleased with her reaction that he entirely forgot to fix his mussed hair, "I…I brought you a gift as a _real_ thank you…" he reached down into his backpack and pulled out several volumes, "Here…" he gently pushed them across the table to her waiting hand, "Thought you might like to have them…seeing as you probably don't have anything else to do around here."

"The references for my dissertation?" she looked up at him, a highly uncharacteristic smile on her face, "Dick, where did you find these?"

"Sweet-talked my way into your dorm," he said, "I promise I didn't touch anything else…just brought you those books…and this, of course…" he retrieved a rather thick notebook, half of which was filled with her small, uniform handwriting.

"And you brought my dissertation draft…" she looked at him with a teasing glint in her eye, "Gracious, Mr. Grayson, are you trying to get me out of the University quickly?"

"Not in this lifetime," he smiled, a bit on the shy side, "I just figured as long as you had nothing else to do, you might enjoy looking back at what you had on your presentation…I remembered how enthusiastic you were about it when you first writing it…"

"I've been missing it, I confess," she said, "You do spoil your ex-tutor, Dick."

"Oh, I'm not done with you yet," he grinned, fishing back for one last item, "Thought you'd be missing your favorite work of all…"

"C_omplete Works of Washington Irving_…" she smiled in a way he'd never seen before, "You most certainly are spoiling me…"

"Dr. Leland seemed ecstatic when I asked her to bring them for you," he said, sitting back, stretching his arms above his head, "She said it would be, and I quote, _most conducive to your therapy for you to have an attachment to your studies while completing your rehabilitation_." He chuckled at her facial reaction, "Hey, don't shoot the messenger, Iris…although I do wish I had a camera for that look on your face."

"I'm sure it would look lovely in the yearbook," she said, rolling her eyes, "Right up there next to the article about how Gotham State's top student was institutionalized but, through a miracle recovery process supplied entirely by Arkham's finest, was able to return to the university—a new woman and poster child for Gotham's population."

"Why weren't you ever on the yearbook committee?" they shared a short bout of laughter before he pulled his face into a serious expression. Leaning forward, checking to make certain no guards were eavesdropping, he lowered his voice as he looked into her eyes—even the one he couldn't see, "Seriously, though…how are you doing in here?"

She shrugged, noncommittal as always, "As well as anyone can be in this place, Dick…you should know better than anyone not to expect any more than that. At least not from someone on the other side of the padded cell…I'm not one of the onlookers anymore, I'm the one being looked at."

"If…if it's worth anything, Iris…" he swallowed, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue for a moment, "I didn't come here to gawk. I came here to see you. I've been worried…and then Carmen announced that this trip was coming…" he swallowed again, "I just wanted to see you…"

Her hand touched his face. He remembered her skin once feeling cold; it now felt quite pleasantly warm, "You're sweet." A quiet sigh, "Tell me something, Dick…how is my other little protégé?"

He smiled at the pet name, "She's good," he nodded to reaffirm his statement, "Misses you like no other though, I guarantee that. Ever since I mentioned I was coming here, she's been bombarding me with questions I have to ask you, things I have to make sure to tell her when I get back…you know how she is…"

Iris nodded, lost in thought for a moment, "Iris?" his voice made her look up. He swallowed, "About…about Jervis Tetch…do you think he'd…try to see her? You know, now that he's out of Arkham and all?"

"Between you and I?" at his nod, she continued, "I don't know how long Jervis Tetch is going to be out of Arkham, and frankly, I'm more than confident that he shares my thoughts on the matter. Whatever he may choose to do with his time is his decision and his alone. If you're concerned that he might attempt to bring some sort of harm to her, you can rid your head of those thoughts, Dick."

"You know best, as always," he smiled slightly at the wink she threw him.

"And don't you forget it, boy." She smirked, tossing her hair over her shoulder with an elegant motion. There was a loud knock at the door, making him groan quietly, looking up at the clock. Surely it hadn't been an hour already…but according to those numbers, it had indeed. With a resigned sigh, he stood up, reaching out a hand to shake in a farewell gesture. To his undisguised shock, he felt her lips press to his cheek in a swift kiss. He felt his skin turn crimson with the gesture and found himself staring into her playful eye and teasing smile.

"Behave until I get out, Dick…" she said, collecting her books in one arm and waving goodbye as she turned away. He remained perfectly still until the door closed behind her, with the most ridiculous grin on his face known to mankind.

* * *

"Questioned by a pack of salivating, hormonal teenagers…" Ivy groaned, sliding lower into the seat she was located in, burying her face in a small cup of cheap tea provided by some sweet-talked guard, "I've never been so humiliated in my life. What I wouldn't give to have had my poisons…"

"You're telling me…" Edward grumbled, poking his pencil at the crossword puzzle he'd completed an hour ago, "Do you know one of those impudent adolescents asked me _where I came from_? Treated me like some exotic breed of dog…this is _precisely_ why I loathe children."

"Oh, stop pitying yourself, Nygma," Crane snapped, glaring down at a Psychology magazine (out of date), "At least you weren't dealing with your former students—insubordinate little brats laughing like they were at some comedy event. The next time I get out of here, so help me, I'll give those cretins a _real_ education…"

Harvey, like Waylon and Arnold, was ignoring the conversation occurring on the other end of the room. Waylon was immersed in a wrestling magazine he'd found in the library, silently seething after being gawked at like an animal in the zoo; he would probably take his frustration out when he conducted his usual evening routine. Arnold was sitting beside Waylon, quietly reading a murder mystery to Scarface. The puppet kept making commentary on the characters, usually the main protagonist, sneering at his supposed incompetency.

Harvey, on the other hand, was seated on the other couch in the room, up against the far wall. In his hands was the notebook Iris had given him after the visiting ordeal had passed. He was already halfway through what she had written down, and he was quite impressed. Iris was, by far, one of the singularly best writers he'd ever met. He was quite sorry they hadn't met sooner; he might have been able to pull enough strings to have her appointed as his speech writer.

Looking down for a moment, the former district attorney smiled slightly. Iris was curled up on the couch, her hands resting on his right knee, her head nestled in his lap. It was quite evident she was fast asleep, and he suspected she would not even wake up to return back to her cell. She had been this way since they had gone to rec time. After asking him to look over her thesis, she had curled up and hadn't moved in an hour and a half.

His mutilated hand slowly drifted down, setting on her dark head and slowly running through the silky strands of hair. Even in her sleep, she seemed to appreciate the gesture, as the quietest murmur escaped her lips with his touch.

He smiled and settled back to finish reading.

* * *

"Dick, I'm flattered, really…" a very exasperated blonde said, running her hand through her hair to tuck the loose strands behind her ear, "But this is quite unnecessary. I'm not a child, you know."

"I know, I know…" the dark haired youth said, his eyes narrowed slightly, fishing about the dimly lit street for anything of suspicious nature, "But it never hurts to have a little extra protection, you know. One never knows what might be out there…waiting…"

"Oh, stop it, Dick, you sound like something out of a horror novel," she sighed, setting a hand to his chest as he inched closer, more protectively than she cared for him to be, "Listen, Dick…if you think I don't know why you've been acting so protective, and why the student body at the university have been giving me the most blatantly obvious looks, you're all delusional. I do read the papers, you know. Now," she reached into her pocket, fishing out a small key ring with four keys attached, "If you don't mind, we are here at my house, and I think I can walk through my front door with no difficulty, thank you."

"Alright, alright, alright…" he said, holding up his hands in surrender as he backed away, "I _am_ just trying to look out for you…"

She sighed, softening a bit, "I know, Dick…and I do appreciate it. If anything else, I did enjoy the company. Good night,"

He smiled, waving goodbye. Once the door had closed securely behind her, he took another peruse around the area, then reached down into the lapel of his jacket, hoisting up a small black device and pulling it close to his mouth, "No sign of him," he whispered into the tiny speaker.

"Good work, Dick," a deep voice answered back through the electronic piece, "And don't worry…according to the tracking records from his parole officer, he hasn't been anywhere near Miss Pleasance's residence. Get some sleep, and I'll check in with you in the morning."

"Alright…night, Bruce." The speaker was neatly tucked back in his coat before he walked along down the sidewalk.

* * *

Inside the small entry hall, Alice Pleasance sighed, pulling her coat from her shoulders to be hung on the rack inside her apartment. There were three things on her mind at the moment: fix dinner, finish her Literature essay, and type up those reports for Dr. Cates. After that, she could finally lie down, relax, and forget about all those stares she'd been getting for the past two—

Her hand froze quite literally in mid-air, just about to place the key inside the lock of her door. Her eyes, however, had seen something resting beside the door. It was not large, nor was it hidden, merely wrapped in pale blue tissue paper and lying in plain sight. Whatever it was, someone had wanted to make sure it was seen. Bending down, she retrieved it in her free hand, but did not unwrap until she was safely inside her apartment. Carefully, she opened the paper.

Her keys and coat fell to the floor.

Lying inside the tissue paper was a rose…and a small note, written in neat print:

_Forgive me._


	9. A Question for An Answer

"_Confession is always weakness. The grave soul keeps its own secrets, and takes its own punishment in silence."_

_~ Dorothy Dix_

Chapter 9 – A Question for an Answer

"Iris, are you listening?"

"I've been listening for the thirty minutes and forty three seconds that you have been regaling me with the details of our sessions, Dr. Sunshine," Iris said, stretching her arms high above her head before folding them casually behind her head, "Is there anything else you wish to explain in great length to me before we move on?"

The blonde doctor sighed heavily, but her determination to prevail over this girl's stubbornness won out over the frustration and exhaustion, "Now then…since you have no questions, I've decided to just jump right into things. I know you and Professor Jonathan Crane have been having a physical relationship. There's no point in denying it, so—"

"I have never once denied it, Dr. Sunshine," Iris said calmly, "The doctors, orderlies, and guards in this fine establishment," the doctor noted her obvious sarcasm, "Simply do not know what happens between Professor Crane and I because, for one thing, it is none of their business, and second, they have never asked."

"You are, of course, aware of Gotham City's law regarding—"

"Those laws ceased to have any sort of impact the minute I became a patient at Arkham, Doctor," Iris interrupted with the same serene tone, "You should know that."

"Iris, sweetheart…" she sighed slightly at the young girl's dark glare with the pet name, "Honey, I think you'll find that I'm different than the other doctors here…I want to be your friend."

"That's not the job of doctors at Arkham," she said, but there was a softer tone to her voice, something Amy Sunshine did not fail to notice, "Joan has won my respect after six months of trying, and that's a record, believe me."

There was a long pause, and the blonde sighed heavily. She had heard of Iris DeLaine's resistance to therapy methods; after all, it was truly infamous to any doctor considering employment at Arkham Asylum. She had been observing the girl in the two weeks that she had been there, and all she had noticed was her blatant, even furious, contempt for the faculty and staff alike. She'd tried to make notes, but that would have required spying on her, and the point was to _earn_ her trust, not create a series of events that would destroy any chance of gaining that trust. But…she thought to herself grimly, it didn't appear that she would be doing anything with her any time—

"What do you want to know?"

If she had not seen Iris' lips move, she would have convinced herself that she was hearing things. Her mouth hanging slightly agape, eyes staring at her rather stupidly for what seemed an eternity. Finally, the silence was broken as the young girl leaned forward, turning her body around to rest her elbows on the edge of the desk. Baby blue eyes met vivid sapphire, "You heard me correctly," she spoke, voice no higher than a whisper, "What do you want to know?"

She swallowed for a moment, wetting her lips weakly. She had never felt this frightened, and she could not explain it. She wanted to know, but did she dare reach her hand into this Pandora's Box? After another few minutes, she took a long breath, and took what small hold she still had on control over this situation, "Why would you give me these secrets?" she asked, "Why would you trust so easily after barely two weeks?" could it be? Was Iris finally caving, prepared to take the first steps to full recovery?

"Ask your questions,"

Amy chose to stop delaying and begin questioning before Iris closed herself up for good. Consulting her small, cheap leather bound notebook for some of the many questions she wished to ask the young girl, the doctor made the conclusion that jumping right into the serious questions would only destroy her chances at digging through Iris' mental and emotional walls. Instead, she decided to begin with some simpler questions…or at least, the subject that was foremost on her mind.

"Iris…I'd like to speak to you about your relationship with Professor Jonathan Crane."

For all her childish apparel, her speech that lacked maturity and diction that would suggest she had a higher degree of education than a twelve year old…Amy Sunshine was finally proving to have some sort of professional demeanor. Iris privately confessed herself impressed at how pleasant company the woman was once her attitude was somber. Or at least, she would have been even more intriguing had she not been set on prying open every door to Iris' past.

But two could play this game.

"Tell me, Iris…" she said, looking over her notebook at the teenager, "How did it all begin?"

She settled back, looking at the doctor with calm eyes, "I think you already know the answer to that question, Amy. It is no secret on the fine campus of Gotham State as to the nature of our relationship."

"It is no secret that you were Professor Crane's student—his best student, in fact," the doctor said, looking down at her scribbled notes for reference, "You spent all your studies with him…he was your counselor, head of your designated area of study…" her eyebrows rose slightly, "I confess, Iris…your relationship with him is quite impressive…"

"It was also entirely innocent," she said calmly, pressing her fingers together to create a steeple beneath her chin, "You would be as convinced of that simple truth as you are of the lies which Dr. Long has contrived…if you were willing to actually listen, but I have grown weary of expecting that from people."

Amy stopped. Suddenly, her curiosity for Iris' relationship with her professor dwindled away and faded entirely, replaced by a stronger sense of wondering as Iris, yet again, stated her blatant distrust of people. Closing her notebook slowly, she leaned forward, "Iris…honey, who hurt you?"

Whatever question she had been expecting, it was clear instantly that Iris was not anticipating _that_ question. There was a flicker that passed through her eyes, then she gave her head a light, dismissive shake and looked back at the doctor, "What does that matter?"

"Iris…no one ends up in Arkham at your age and demonstrates this…well, lack of emotion without some impact from your childhood." She leaned closer, "Was it your parents, sweetheart? Are they the ones who did this to you?"

Iris looked at her, then gave a soft sigh, "How do I know I can trust you?" she asked, voice as soft as ever.

"You can trust me, honey…I promise. Did your parents hurt you?" she felt her breath catching slightly, feeling the anticipation equivalent with that one experiences just before the roller coaster takes that wild dive off the platform. A moment's pause, and then Iris finally looked at her.

"They…they were good for a while." She admitted slowly, chewing her lower lip slightly, "My parents stayed in my life…for a couple years, and they were good parents. They taught me to walk, to read, to dress myself…all of that was done as a family, just the three of us. I'm…I'm an only child, you see, so…I didn't have to worry about not having my parents' attention. And it was wonderful…it was like a fairytale, really. Like we were living in a play…" she gazed up with a dreamy look in her eyes, "So many other kids who had parents…parents with those kind of jobs—the really good paying ones…they seemed to be so lonely, hurt and broken because they never got to see their parents. But I was different…Momma and Papa and I…we always had fun. They were always smiling, always happy…always so loving."

She sighed softly, the dreamy look fading away, "But…things happened."

"What things?"

Another sigh, "Things…Daddy was so busy with work…he started to work late, very late. And Momma…well, she lasted a little while longer, but she became tired…so tired all the time. I tried to make her happy again. I tried to get her to play with me. We could always play. But Momma didn't want to play anymore. She spent all her time in bed. I tried to take care of her while Daddy was gone, but…well, I wasn't a very good nurse…not at that age anyway…not when I was only seven years old." She leaned her head against the chair, looking out the window, "And then Momma got sicker and sicker…she had to go to the hospital a lot. Daddy visited her almost every day…sometimes spending the night when she started living over there. Because he was gone so much, Daddy hired me a babysitter, but she wasn't nice. She spent all her time talking on the phone, one boy after another. Then she started bringing the boys home with her. Well, not exactly…I mean, she'd _never_ let Daddy see her bring a boy over, but once he was gone, they were together, and I was locked in my room. But I could hear them through the floors." She shuddered, "The noises they would make…I didn't understand it, and I didn't want to understand it. In fact, I didn't want to understand it so much that…well…"

"Go on, Iris…it's alright, you can speak freely here." Amy said, not looking up from her notebook, where the pen was flying.

"Well…it's just…when I got older…when I got my very first boyfriend, I was thirteen…" she drew in her lower lip, "I knew Daddy didn't like him. He was five years older than me. But he was nice…he liked to buy me gifts…a lot of gifts, pretty things…like jewelry and those things. Oh, and he bought me clothes! Lots of clothes! I liked them…they were so pretty. I wanted to give him something in return…so…so I gave myself. He liked that…a lot. He started wanting his gift every night. And I gave it. He deserved it…for being so nice…that is…"

"That is, what?"

"That is…until he left me, for some other girl. She was older, prettier than me. He bought her nice things too. He liked her just like he said he liked me. I thought…I thought I was special. And every man I've ever been with…they're all the same. People tell me that I should look for better men, and I am! I'm trying…but it just doesn't seem like they're out there…I guess…I guess I'm just not…good enough."

She had broken off into soft, whimpering sobs. Amy dove for the tissues, handing Iris one and giving her a maternal look of sympathy, "Oh, there, there, there, Iris…you'll find someone. I know you will."

"Y-you really think s-so?" she sniffled into the tissue, "W…what if I've just…given up trying…?" there was something off about her, Amy noticed, as she lifted her head from her hand. Her eyes and face were dry…not a tear stain on her cheek, no redness in the eyes. She took the tissue and dabbed away a loose eyelash, and Amy saw the tissue was completely dry, just like her face. Iris looked up at her slowly, lips slowly curving up into a lazy smile, "Or is there another reason you're still single, Dr. Sunshine?"

* * *

The silence in the office was suffocating, crushing down upon the doctor as she slowly absorbed all that she had just heard over the last fifteen minutes…all the notes she'd taken—her eyes jerked down to the notepad, going back over what she'd written. Her handwriting seemed unfamiliar to her…rushed, messy and blurred. She ought to have noticed…too many similarities…too many common threads…too many bridges suddenly constructed between their lives. Swallowing slowly, she looked back up at Iris.

"You know, Amy…I have to admit I am impressed at the challenge you gave me. All of the others—Bartholomew, Joan…I can read them like a neon billboard, but _you_…no…" she shook her head, smiling lazily, "No, _**you**_ are quite the tricky one to read. I actually thought you would be the easiest thing in the world to get a blueprint on, but you fooled me! Congratulations, my dear Amy!" she applauded her enthusiastically, "Well done, well done indeed! Never thought someone would actually prove me wrong, and here you are! But, all the same, it was nothing that couldn't be cured with a little tidbit of close and personal examination…noting the _slightest_ detail about you. Oh, it took quite a while—yes, I know you've only been here three weeks, but that, my dear girl, is the longest it's _ever_ taken me to get an idea of a person."

Her smile widened all the more, seeming more and more cunning by the passing second, "Poor girl…it must have hurt to watch the fairytale break apart like you did, wasn't it? To watch Momma succumb to illness as she did—I'm suspecting cancer was the culprit, no? And to watch Daddy lose his strength, and eventually his job…all because he was being a proper husband? A good and faithful lover to the woman he'd sworn his love and devotion to…_till death do us part_…and how did the company reward him? By announcing with no warning whatsoever that he was being fired. Yes, fired. After all those years of service…all the hard work he'd done, often not even taking credit for it…it was all being tossed away, like a used _tissue_. And Amy was left out in the cold…without a father, soon without a mother…no one to guide her, to help her make decisions in this world. And then to lose her virginity at the tender age of thirteen, to some selfish pig of a boy who just wanted his rocks off…you'd given him _everything_ when you took him to your bed, didn't you, Amy?" she leaned closer, voice lowering slightly, "You didn't want it to be in the back seat of a car, or on the couch…you wanted to do it properly, to make it _mean_ something. He didn't even care, did he? He just wanted his romp and then pack up and go. But you were so convinced that he loved you, weren't you? That's why you never, ever denied it to him when he wanted it. And how does _he_ repay you? By running off with some billboard model creature with all the man's needs in one package—physically speaking, that is. And Amy had her heart broken again. You've never taken the chance again, have you, Amy? Here at the tender age of twenty-eight, and you have never had a real boyfriend…mere pick-ups at the local bars."

"But," she continued, "Let me tell you, Amy…this…bar-trolling exercise of yours…it's another excuse to hide behind. You are perfectly capable of finding someone, if you really wanted to. And you do want to, but you've spent the better part of fifteen years convincing yourself otherwise, haven't you? That's a dangerous card to hold, Amy…a very dangerous hand to deal…and a deadly game to play. Lying to yourself…that's the name of the game…and it will soon enough be your cause of death if you're not careful. So…heed my advice, Amy dear…after all, _the only thing we have to fear…is fear itself_. Let us not forget the noble words of dear President Roosevelt."

A knock came at the door, "Pardon me, Dr. Sunshine, but DeLaine's hour is up…we've got to take her back to the cell."

"Excellent timing, gentlemen," Iris said, standing and twirling herself towards the door, "Then we shall be on our way, won't we?"

"One…one moment more, Iris." Amy said, standing as well, using her desk as support, "You never answered my question…did your parents hurt you?"

* * *

"_M…Mommy?"_

_Tiny fingers pressed to the cracked door, pushing it open slowly to reveal what lay inside—or rather __**who**__. A man, tall, burly, and reeking blatantly of alcohol, was on his knees, grinning obscenely, his body jerking forward repeatedly. The cries coming from the woman beneath him were nauseating to hear…something she had once accidentally heard in a pornography film. The girl shrank back as she saw the face of the woman beneath the ape of a man—_

"_Mother?" she called out._

_The man looked shocked, and irate, but his reaction was nothing compared to her mother's. Before movement had even registered in her developing brain, she found her hair caught in her mother's vicious fist, and she was on her knees, bare skin being cruelly rubbed against the firm bristles of the carpet. Her small hands grasped onto her mother's fist—begging to be set free, trying to loosen the grip—she didn't know which._

"_Mother, PLEASE! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I swear, I won't do it again! Please let me go!! Please, Mother, please! It hurts!"_

"_You have __**no**__ conception of pain, little wench! But I'll show you…" she seemed to relish the shriek of pain as her daughter's head came in contact with the jutting corner of the kitchen island counter, "How dare you, Iris?! I told you to stay in your room!"_

"_Mother, __**please**__…please, I hate it in there…it scares me! Please, let me stay upstairs!! Please!!!"_

_SLAP! "Shut up, shut up, you miserable little…" her voice trailed off as those sharp blue eyes found a large knife, resting on the edge of the sink from today's breakfast preparation. She grasped it, looking carefully over it, then smiling slowly, lazily, "And to think…I was going to call you a bitch. You don't deserve to be called a bitch…look at you, little…thing. You're not even __**feminine**__. Such a disappointment. How could you fail so pitifully with __**my**__ genes? You disgrace!" a slap and a whimper, "Well…if you're not going to get my beauty…" her free hand grasped the front of the neat plaid jumper and white top, ripping it away to bare a thin little chest, "Why bother considering yourself female at all?"_

_The knife lowered down, towards the heaving chest._

_Pleading hands were grasped in the free hand, unable to move for protection._

_Lower…_

"_Mother…Momma, please! Please, please, please!! I'll be good, I'll be good!!"_

_Lower…_

"_Mommy!!"_

_The cold blade touched the heaving chest._

"_PLEASE!!!!"_

_The blade cut deep. Blood rose. Screams._

* * *

"If you want to pry and poke in someone else's personal life, Doctor," Iris said calmly, turning and facing the blonde doctor, "Try with someone else. I'm not interested."

"Tell me." She said, shaking slightly now, "Was…was _any_ of that…any of that story you told…was any of it true…for you?"

Iris turned and looked back at the guards, ready to be returned to her cell…to the privacy of her own thoughts.

"Maybe some of it was. Maybe all of it was. Or…maybe none of it was."


	10. Unassuming Gifts

"_The greatest gift is a portion of thyself."_

_~Ralph Waldo Emerson_

Chapter 10: Unassuming Gifts

"So…did you enjoy your vacation?" Iris asked smoothly, a smile curving her lips as she spotted those familiar white, black-tipped shoes trotting across the cheap linoleum floor of Arkham's library. Her first cue to a new presence, actually, had been the gentle humming coming from around the corner. Now, her eyes rose from her copy of _Complete Works of Edgar Allen Poe_ to meet the familiar blue ones of Jervis Tetch. The Hatter seemed to be in quite the jolly mood, even considering he was once again behind Arkham's walls.

"Indeed!" he answered with a cheerful grin, settling himself in an armchair across from the teenager, "I traveled to South America!"

"South America?" she asked, lowering her book slightly to get a proper view of him, "What on earth were you doing there, Jervis?"

"Making acquaintance with a doll maker in a small native village, in fact!" he regaled enthusiastically. Iris smiled slightly, marking her page and lifting up the daily newspaper.

"_This_ doll maker?" she asked lightly, holding up the front page to flash the headline screaming across the paper: **Hatter's Worry Dolls Collected By Authorities**, "Seems to be quite the ingenious invention, Jervis…my compliments."

"Oh, my dear girl, you're far too kind," he beamed, "In fact, I have a little gift of my own for you…one that the police never confiscated, and the new security guard didn't quite think to take."

She perked up, "A gift? Oh, Jervis, you shouldn't have…"

"Oh, tush." He said cheerfully, "Really now, Iris…I would never just go off on a vacation and not bring you back a little trinket! Not for my girl…who else in this place shares my love of Master Carroll?"

"Ignore them, dear Jervis," she crooned, "They have no appreciation for fine literature." She set the newspaper aside, perching herself on the edge of the couch, looking like an eager child on Christmas morning. He could hardly keep a smile from his face with her innocent demeanor…it was so unlike what everyone else in the asylum saw in Iris DeLaine on a daily basis.

"Here you are, my dearest one…" he said, fishing from an inside pocket of his asylum uniform (a little addition Iris had sewn in for him months ago) and producing a tiny doll, "I had my good friend make this especially for you."

She reached out a long hand and took the doll almost reverently, looking down at it to examine the detail closely. It did not appear to be any different from the photographs in the newspaper, at least not in build or design…but it was wearing a small black dress, and its eyes were painted bright blue. Iris smiled as she returned her gaze to Jervis, "This is lovely, Jervis…absolutely lovely…"

She pushed herself off the couch and crossed over to him, crouching beside the armchair and pressing a kiss to his cheek, "You're so thoughtful…thank you."

"Anything for you, my dear girl," he smiled, pressing a kiss to her hand. Settling back into the chair, he reached down on the seat and fetched the book he'd brought with him, "Now then…for a good read…" he said, making himself comfortable in the chair and opening his well-read and slightly battered copy of _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_.

Iris smiled and rested back in the couch. A few minutes later, a shadow loomed over her. Looking entirely unconcerned, she kept her eyes on the book, "May I help you, Doctor?"

"You can explain to me just what you did to Amy." Joan Leland answered, her voice edgy and frosty as she stood beside the couch, hands firmly resting on her hips, face set in a scowl.

Iris finally looked up at her, "You're referring to why she retired this morning."

The announcement caught the attention of the surrounding inmates, but Iris kept her eyes on Dr. Leland, her own face calm and set, "Well, Joan…hopefully I gave her insight as to what she was missing in life. I do hope she has taken my advice."

"Advice?" her voice rose an octave or two as she fumed over the teenager, "_Advice_? Iris, the session was recorded; I heard just what _**advice**_ you gave her! You turned the entire point of the session around on her, took her own past and her private difficulties and humiliated her!"

"Is that how she remembers it?" Iris asked quietly, "Because I take a different memory of how those events transpired…and if she's half as brilliant as I supposed her to be…she understood that entirely, Joan. If she did retire, it is because she finally understands what needs to be done."

"And that is _what_?"

Iris sighed heavily, clearly disinclined to explain this, "You cannot even hope to take on the personal trials of a person if you are hiding your own trials and tribulations. She had no chance of making progress with me when she was not capable of dealing with her own. I simply brought her difficulties to light…and I believe that she was impacted enough to see that she had to make changes in her life."

"Iris, you are not capable or even _qualified_ to make that—"

"Oh, don't trouble the girl with this, Joan!" the unmistakable voice of Amy Sunshine suddenly spoke from behind Iris, and a pair of warm hands set on the girl's thin shoulders. Iris tilted her head slightly to look at her former doctor while Joan simply looked taken aback at Amy's words, "Iris has brought me to light…and I am quite grateful to her for it! Iris, I would like to speak with you privately, if you please."

"Of course," Iris said, standing calmly and following the blonde out of the library, "In fact, would you like me to help you pack, Amy? There's no need for you to destroy your back putting all those things in boxes and taking them all the way out to your car."

"Oh, you are a sweet thing…" she said, patting her shoulder lightly, "That would be quite lovely, in fact…thank you, my dear."

"Not at all…" Iris said. She seemed to be in quite a pleasant mood this afternoon. Amy assumed Jervis' Tetch's return was the reason behind such a delightful change in the young girl's personality. She quickly set to work in the doctor's office, neatly packing things. While tending to one side of the room, Amy couldn't resist her nature as a psychologist and looked over at Iris. She was certainly meticulous, taking the items by size at first and then setting them in the box accordingly, to save space and pack as many items as possible, and do it safely. She was a neat and tidy person, not obsessively so, but she certainly knew how to keep a place in order. Perhaps it was a relaxation exercise for her, as it was for many people.

"Is that it then?" Iris' voice startled the doctor out of her private thoughts. After collecting herself for a moment, she nodded with a light and grateful smile. Iris raised a brow slightly, "My goodness, Doctor…you didn't have a terrible amount of items with you, did you?"

"Oh, I prefer to keep things small, at least in an office. I'm afraid my personal office is…well, not as neat as this," she commented, looking down to admire Iris' handiwork with a beaming smile, "You're quite kind, Iris…I do thank you."

"And what is next for you, Amy?" she asked softly.

She paused, looking up at her thoughtfully, "You wish to know…truthfully?"

"I despise lies, Doctor…they are cowardly and a dreadful web to weave and trap yourself in." Iris answered softly, though her eyes betrayed nothing. Amy knew better than to ask any questions, so she merely kept her smile.

"I believe I shall try a career in social work," she said softly, noting the evident surprise on Iris' face. So…there was something that could shock this clever girl yet. "I have seen what poor, neglectful, and I suspect…unusually cruel parents can do to a child." She gave a small, fleetingly hopeful glance to Iris once again, but the girl had regained and collected herself, and her face once again showed nothing, "So…I've decided that this place…well, it's not for me. I think you ought to consider a career here, Iris. The inmates know you and trust you deeply. I suspect you could make more progress with them in a week than the other doctors have in a year, and I'd place money on that bet."

Iris finally smiled…the first actual smile Amy Sunshine had actually gotten out of here in her short time at Arkham, "I appreciate your confidence, Doctor, but I would consider that betraying their trust…and it is such a difficult thing to come across in them…you understand why I would not take such a career path."

"I hear your competency hearing is set for today, Iris." Amy said, hoisting one box of the three in her arms, watching silently as Iris impressively lifted both of the remaining two boxes, "How do you feel?"

A noncommittal shrug, "I feel indifferent…I hardly expected it to be set this soon…I'm not supposed to be even eligible for release for another year."

"And if you are released?" Amy asked, balancing her box on a hip and opening her car door, "What career path will you take?"

"I'll finish my degree in Psychology," Iris said, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth at the thought of Dick Grayson and the "gifts" he had brought to her, "After that…sky is the limit, as they say."

Amy gave her a warm smile, "Well, Iris…whichever path you choose…you'll do well, I know it. Best of luck to you, my dear."

* * *

"Are you feeling okay, Blue?" Harley asked, eyeing the younger girl as she dropped down on the couch once again.

"If you're referring to my brief moment of being nice to the good doctor," she said calmly, "It was a passing moment, nothing more."

"Sure you're not getting soft on us, Iris?" Edward smirked from the edge of the couch. Seconds later, he landed unsteadily on his feet as she delivered a shove to his side with her foot, freeing up the entire couch for her.

"Not on your life, Eddie." She smirked at his scowl and nestled her head back on the lap of her companion on the left end of the couch. The former professor looked down briefly, then merely gave a satisfied smile and settled back with his book, one hand drifting down to rest on her dark head.

"Get a room, you two…" Edward scoffed.

His cheek earned him another kick…from both parties.

* * *

The workshop area was located in the lower area of Arkham's structures. Many of the prisoners had christened it "the dungeon", and truth be told, such a name was not without merit. It was a dark, windowless place, with the only light coming from the various lamps and overhead lighting around the area. The room was large, one of the largest in the asylum, with shelves lining the walls and tables stationed in various places of the room. The tables were large enough for three or four inmates to work at one table, and there were several other stations for sawing, dusting, and other such activities.

The room, unlike the other community areas, was usually one of the more quiet places in Arkham; very few words were spoken among the inmates here, only the steady murmur and purr of machines could be heard throughout the room. Of all the places in Arkham, Dr. Bartholomew personally enjoyed being down here the most. Once you became accustomed to the lack of heating, it was mildly pleasant, as much as a place in Arkham could be, at least.

"How is he?" Bartholomew asked, eyeing one station off to the corner, where Arnold Wesker was busy hunched over something, as though keeping it private.

"Quite well, actually." The supervisor said, looking cheerful, "I've never seen him so dedicated to a project…not even rebuilding Scarface has received this much attention. I'd say he's been on this one for about…the last three week or so. It's a long process," he added in response to the doctor's blatant look of surprise, "He's not working with wood anymore…"

"Why…?" Bartholomew asked, arching a suspicious brow.

"Well…" the man scoffed his toe, looking mildly sheepish, "He'd been doing so well lately, working only on small things, shelves and such, and not even paying any mind to Scarface…well, I thought he deserved a treat. I know I'm not qualified to make that judgment," he admitted, "But when I gave it to him, he looked so happy…and he hasn't even paid Scarface a bit of attention over these last few weeks. All his work has been dedicated to this new project."

"He's interacted with the puppet during rec time and other activities," Bartholomew said, looking unconvinced, "For all we know, he's making a companion for Scarface."

"I don't think he's interested in working with wood anymore, Doctor…" the other male said, shifting slightly, "He's working with porcelain…" he nodded over to the station, where the ventriloquist was still hard at work, "He worked for the last two weeks on the doll itself, every detail down to perfection. He's been waiting for the last few days for it to be properly glossed and dried. In the meantime, he's been working on dressing it. I offered to have my wife sew it, she's a great seamstress, but he refused, very politely so, I might add. He did take me up on another offer though; had my wife come in for a day to give him a sewing lesson—and I had Dr. Leland's permission for that, sir," he added quickly, seeing Bartholomew's brows disappear into his hair, "Just for a few hours…she said he was the best student she ever had. Quick learner, and eager to learn at that. He's been working on the clothes ever since…I think he's just about done too."

He strolled over, setting a hand on Arnold's shoulder, "How's it looking, Arnold?"

"Oh, hello, Doctor…sir," he addressed both men with a small smile, "Quite well…now we just have to see if it works or not." He added with a small smile.

"Oh, I'm sure it will." The supervisor patted his shoulder, "Let me go and get the doll for you…"

Bartholomew cleared his throat, "And just who is this for, Arnold?" he asked, keeping his voice light and calm.

"Oh…well, it's a gift, sir. I don't have much time to give it to her…I hope it's ready…" he stammered off, looking down at the cloth in his hands.

"Her?" the doctor inquired. Unfortunately, his conversation was cut short by the reappearance of the guard, holding a doll in his hands.

"Here you are, Arnold!" he beamed, handing over the object tenderly, "All ready to be dressed and then you're good to go!"

"Oh, thank you, sir!" he said, giving one of the first genuine smiles Bartholomew had ever seen on the man's face since he was admitted to Arkham Asylum. Both men watched—Bartholomew with surprise and the supervisor with a broad smile—as Arnold tenderly and carefully dressed the doll, then looked it over slowly. He frowned.

"Something is missing…" he murmured.

"Missing?" Bartholomew asked, looking at the doll, "She looks perfect."

"No…not yet…" suddenly, his eyes fell on the sewing basket. A small band of black silk ribbon was hanging out of the rim, probably the last scraps from a roll of ribbon. He reached out, taking it in his hand carefully.

He smiled. "Now, she's perfect."

* * *

"You can't use that!" Waylon fumed, "That ain't even a word!"

"Try reading a _dictionary_ once in your life, Croc." Edward shot back, "It's really a _wonderful_ thing, and when you actually do read it, you might find _words_ once in your life! Ever used them before?"

"Why you—"

"Alright, the both of you, zip it!" Iris said, finally having had enough of the argument that had been going on for the last half hour, "This is why we don't play Scrabble anymore…" she muttered, "Edward, no Latin words, or any words that are longer than ten letters. Waylon, _sit down_."

The former wrestler lowered himself back down to the couch, glowering at the Riddler, who was sulking at his new restrictions. Iris sighed heavily, "God as my witness, if I _ever_ have children, they'll be raised with manners and common sense."

"Fine by me," Crane said from the other end of the couch, with the newspaper propped up on his hands, "Keep them out of my chemicals, and we'll have a perfect deal, Iris."

"Ha!" Edward smirked, "As if Iris would ever have a child with you, Crane….that poor child would be the laughing stock of the neighborhood if it looked _anything_ like you—OW!"

While Edward was nursing the back of his head, Iris stepped out of the game for a quick stretch around the rec room, craning her neck for any sign of Arnold. Not seeing him, she frowned. He should have been back from shop by now…it had been two hours since he was—

"Iris?"

The familiar meek voice spoke form behind her, and she turned to see Arnold looking mildly sheepish and holding something behind his back, "Arnold!" she said happily, "Where have you been? Did they make you clean house again?"

"No…no, they haven't done that since l-last week. I just…well, I…"

Iris raised a brow ever so slightly at his timid behavior—more so than he usually was. Setting a gentle hand on his shoulder, "Come on, Arnold, don't be so nervous…what's on your—"

Whatever she intended to say died in her throat as he slowly revealed the hidden item from behind his back, holding it out for her in trembling hands. It was a porcelain doll, a little over a foot tall, perhaps a foot and a half at most. The head, arms and legs were made of the fragile material, while the torso was softer, probably cotton stuffed with feathers. The white face had been painted with no detail spared: the soft, feathery brush of the eyelashes, sweeping upward over and above the piercing blue eyes; the soft and gentle slope of the nose ending in petite nostrils; the lips, painted a special shade of red Arnold had requested named "Blooming Rose", were slender, not full but not entirely thin. The entire face was framed by a head of jet black curls. The hair felt incredibly real to the touch; it was probably a wig, special ordered. The soft mane coiled and fell down to about mid back; the wig was even crafted to include bangs, falling with casual elegance just above the brow line. The doll was dressed in a satin gown, strapless with a bodice fashioned like an old England corset, detailed with silver threading and a black trim along the hem. The skirt was simple, falling to cover the feet in a curtain of satin cloth. Like the bodice, there was a black detail on the hem, and the skirt shimmered in the light, thanks to the glimmering thread sewn on it. Lifting the skirt, the feet were shown to be tucked in satin black slippers. The doll, it could be suspected, was not made for a child, for the torso sported a small bust. Hardly anything scandalously defined, but it was there.

All in all…it was positively…magnificent.

"Arnold…" she finally managed to whisper his name, but little else came from her mouth at the moment. He was fidgeting with his hands, chewing his lower lip.

"I…I know you…you're not a child, Iris…b-but…well, I just thought…I didn't have much else to give you…and it is your birthday in a few days—"

"WHAT?" Harley interrupted with a squeal that threatened to make poor Arnold deaf on the spot, "You never told us it was your BIRTHDAY, Blue!"

"For this very reason, I might point out," she answered quietly, her eyes still on the doll.

Harley broke into enthusiastic chatter with the other inmates, with the exception of Professor Crane who remained entirely uninvolved in whatever schemes the others were plotting for Iris' birthday celebration. Arnold swallowed hard, more of a gulp than anything.

"I know…I know you're turning seventeen, Iris…I just thought…" he was talking himself into a whole. Best stop while one was already behind. It was a ridiculous idea to begin with…but he had just thought…maybe she would like a little doll to call her own. She never talked about owning one when she was a child…but that was years ago. She was far too mature for that now—

His thoughts were entirely brought to a screeching halt as Iris threw her arms around him, having set the doll carefully upon the small table. He at first thought she meant to do some harm or ridicule to him—it wouldn't be the first time that happened to him—but seconds later, he realized she was hugging him…embracing him. The most affection she ever showed anyone (not counting the professor) was a light kiss to the cheek or pat on the shoulder. But she was hugging and holding him…like a child to a father.

Had he really done something that special?

* * *

"_Such a lovely room…" Mrs. Jane Emmer commented, looking over the bright and lively colors of the room she was currently standing inside of, "Oh, it's positively wonderful! You're such a lucky girl to have this room, aren't you, Iris?"_

_The child merely nodded quietly, her eyes darting to the large hand on her shoulder, clasping in what company perceived to be a loving and wonderful gesture from father to daughter. Only Iris knew it to be a warning to keep quiet. Children must be seen and not heard. That was the rule._

"_I'm curious, Marcus," Jane commented, throwing the tall man a look, fluttering her lashes quite shamelessly, "Why so few dolls? I only see a few teddy bears…doesn't the child want dolls?"_

"_Ah, no…not my Iris." He said, patting her once, twice, three times on the shoulder, "No, she's more the intellectual type. That's why you see all these books." He smiled pleasantly at her, a smile which had her nearly melted into a puddle on the floor, "Iris is going to take over the company one day…we must have her packed to the brim with all the knowledge she can get her hands on. But she makes it far too easy to do so…she loves every book she can get her hands on! Curious little thing…no, the books are for Iris…the dolls are for…"_

Her memory faded at that point. She knew her father had said something after those words, declaring her the brilliant and rational child, but she could not remember. At any rate, it mattered very little now. She slowly released Arnold, but not before whispering in his ear, something meant only for them.

"Thank you…for not assuming."

His arms had, by this time gently wrapped around her, returning the embrace. The moment, which had been entirely unnoticed by the others, was suddenly broken as Dr. Leland appeared in the doorway.

"Aww…rec time isn't up yet, is it, Doctor Leland?" Harley pouted. The dark-haired psychologist had to smile slightly. It was an inevitable response to the pout.

"No, Harley, you all still have another hour. However, Iris, I need you to come with me," At the girl's raised brow, which always meant you had to tell her exactly what was going on or you could forget about her coming along, "Your…_appointment_ has been moved to today."

"It wasn't supposed to be for another two days." Iris said, reluctantly releasing Arnold to look properly at the doctor.

"Yes, Iris, I know that. I scheduled it for two days later…however, certain individuals have come to the agreement that…" she chose her words carefully; if she didn't do this properly, curiosity would be aroused among the other inmates, and she didn't want that until all decisions were final, "That your time here has prepared you nicely, and there is no need to prolong this any further."

Iris was out in the hallway in an instant. Delighted at first, thinking she was ready to go and get the ball rolling, Leland found her frustration returning to her when Iris faced her, eyes blazing, "You mean, Dr. Long has been making phone calls to good Doctor Arkham." She hissed.

Leland sighed, "Yes." She answered plainly, "And I'm tired of getting berated because I haven't been turning in the reports, Iris…so please, _please_ just be on your best behavior, and we'll see where this goes, alright?"

Iris swallowed back the bitter remark she was longing to make. "Fine."


	11. A Muddle of Competency

_Sanity: _

"_The condition or quality of being sane; soundness of health of body or mind, especially of the mind."_

Chapter 11: A Muddle of Competency

"Iris Mara DeLaine," Dr. Bartholomew said, speaking slowly and patiently, as though he were dealing with a slow, incompetent individual, "My apologies for the inconvenience with moving your trial date, but we felt it was necessary to get you back in Gotham State University, and the real world."

He gave her what she assumed was meant to be a comforting, perhaps even father-like smile. She sighed quietly and sat upright in the seat, looking over the various faces of the competency board. There was Dr. Bartholomew and Dr. Leland, of course, along with two other members. Only one of them was a doctor, but she presumed either some small understanding of deviant psychology (or a substantial amount of money) had gotten the less qualified one on the board. Seated on Dr. Bartholomew's left (he in the middle) was Helen Borr, a short and plump woman with a wiry bout of bottle-dye red hair, a rather sharp and pointed face not unlike a rat that contrasted horribly with her stout build. She was a woman who appeared to favor bright colors and bold patterns; she had donned a capped sleeve dress, the hem falling to about knee length, that was a bright purple color and had very large, very bright yellow flowers showered over it. Her glasses did not compliment her face at all; a square frame would have been far more flattering as opposed to the large, 60's style glasses she was wearing with very thick lenses.

Dr. Leland was on Bartholomew's right, and finally at the end of the table sat an old friend of Leland's; her Criminal Psychology professor from back in her college years, Dr. Peter McLeven. He was by far the oldest of the four, and frankly, Iris already could tell she was going to appreciate him more than the others, with the possible exception of Joan Leland. He was a man of average height, built quite stout around the middle and in the face, but unlike Helen Borr, his portly features complimented him greatly, giving him the look of a benevolent grandfather. He was dressed quite well in a neat, dark green suit, complete with a pocket watch attached to a thick gold chain. Beside him on the table was a bowler hat, black with a dark green ribbon. He had a pair of reading glasses resting beside his water glass. He was a bald man, with no mustache but a fluffy white beard, neatly trimmed to the point where it nearly resembled a cloud on a summer day. At Bartholomew's opening statement, he perked up a bit and placed the glasses on his face, taking her in casually, while Helen seemed to be squinting at her, taking in every detail as though inspecting the teenager for lint.

"Now," Bartholomew continued, "You were scheduled to be an inmate here for one year, perhaps two if necessary, Miss DeLaine. However, in light of Dr. Leland's reports of your positive behavior in therapy sessions," Iris nearly raised a brow at that, "The board has voted to schedule you here for a competency hearing and determine whether or not you are fit to be released from Arkham and be entered once again into proper society—"

"Oh, Bartholomew, off with it," McLeven suddenly interrupted with a dismissive wave of the hand. He spoke with a thick Scottish, or perhaps Irish, accent, "I think she gets the idea, so let's not waste the poor girl's time any more than we already have to."

Iris pocketed a small smile. This professor was her kind of man—to the point, collected, and intelligent. At least one of them had a brain on this little committee. She watched as McLeven gathered her file from Dr. Leland and perused it carefully.

"Now then, Miss DeLaine—DeLaine…what a lovely name. Iris Mara DeLaine… it just flows off the tongue, doesn't it?" he chuckled to himself a bit, "It's…English, yes? But isn't _Mara_ of some Russian descent?" he looked to her for the answer.

A certified psychologist who made pleasant conversation without prying and poking…yes, she would most certainly enjoy this one, "Yes, sir." She nodded politely, "My grandparents are of Russian descent. Grandfather changed his surname when he and Grandmama moved from Russia to England and began the family business. My grandparents personally insisted on selecting my middle name…they didn't quite trust my parents to give me a fitting name, or so I'm told." She added with a coy smile.

He chortled, "Well, I'd say your grandparents did a splendid job!" he searched through the file again, "Daughter of Marcus and Maria DeLaine—good Lord, _the_ Marcus DeLaine? As in…?"

"Owner of DeLaine Towers?" Iris finished for him with a pleasant (if not strained) smile, "Yes, sir, that is my father."

"Then…oh, Heaven save my old soul, your grandparents must be…" his eyes grew wide as he leaned forward, nearly in danger of toppling over the edge of the table and falling flat at her feet. "Good Lord in heaven, of course you are! You look just like her…how is Sylvia doing these days?"

"Quite well, or so she tells me in her letters." She answered, "I haven't had the pleasure of my grandparents' company in several months, but they have written to me regularly since my admittance to Arkham."

"That reminds me…" McLeven said, lifting a brow at the papers before him, "Just _why_ are you locked up here? There isn't a tidbit of criminal behavior in your file."

Iris swallowed slightly, maintaining enough control over herself to not upset the tranquil situation at hand. "I'm afraid there was an incident at the university several months ago that prompted some concern among my superiors regarding my mental health. I believe you'll find it on the next page?"

The elder carefully perused through the documents, nodding to himself as he did so. "I see…you seem to have inherited Sylvia's temper." He gave her a reassuring smile, "Have you been addressing that in your therapy sessions?"

"Dr. Leland has been very patient with me over these past months, sir." She nodded, "I would like to think I have managed to get my temper under control."

Bartholomew chose that rather inopportune moment to speak up. "While Miss DeLaine has been working on her temper, I'm afraid there have been some concerns with it…though it was only once, we did have to place her in solitary confinement several months ago."

"Whatever for?" McLeven inquired, lifting a suspecting brow upon the other doctor, who squirmed slightly. Tempted as she was to allow McLeven to berate Bartholomew, Iris knew she mustn't have the professor defending her honor and _then_ see for what she had been placed in confinement, "I had a slight disagreement with one of the orderlies, sir," Iris answered.

"It says here," Helen Burr finally spoke, though Iris wished privately that she had remained silent, as her voice sounded like a mouse that had just gotten a good whiff of helium, "That Miss DeLaine wrestled a sedative needle from an orderly and jammed it into their thigh to give _them_ the medicine." She gave a loud, haughty sniff and turned her look on Iris, "It seems she has quite the disposition for violence, Peter."

"If I may explain, sir," she said politely, waiting for his nod to continue. Seconds later, she received it, "The orderly in question was attempting to administer those drugs to Harvey Dent, who had done nothing more than tell the orderly to leave me alone less than five minutes before. The next thing I know, the orderly is hollering for assistance because Harvey was being non-compliant and violent. I assure you, he was doing nothing of the sort. The orderly, on the other hand, was not so innocent."

"Was the orderly harassing you, my dear?"

"He was." Iris answered truthfully, "He was making…very lewd suggestions and advances on me. I told him twice to go away, the third time, Harvey stepped in. I merely helped Harvey when he needed it—he had my back, I had his. I do confess I was personally surprised at how deep the needle went in his leg…I wasn't trying to kill him, just wanted him to get off Harvey."

"Seems to me, she has more of a disposition to protect her friends than commit violent acts, Helen." McLeven said briskly, fetching Iris' file and looking over it again, "Now let's see…there have been concerns regarding your relationship with Professor Jonathan Crane…" his eyebrows rose, then he chuckled, "My, my…_twenty-two_ years your senior, eh, Miss DeLaine? Oh, Sylvia would be proud of you…" Bartholomew scowled at him, while Iris pocketed a smile in the corner of her mouth.

McLeven continued reading the file for a moment or two, then straightened up, "Oh honestly, Bartholomew, I don't know what you're yammering about in here. A young woman being on close personal terms with her professor isn't illegal—perhaps a touch out of the norm, but not so scandalous that it requires thorough investigation. There's nothing that definitely proves they are having a sexual relationship in here," he tapped the pages impatiently, "and if it's not in here, then it stands to assume you simply do not have any proof of it…unless there is something you wish to share with us now?"

Sweating profusely, he tugged at the collar of his shirt, "N…no, Dr. McLeven, we have no proof that Iris DeLaine and Professor Crane have continued their sexual relationship—"

"_Continued_?" he repeated, a dangerous edge to his voice, "Continued? The only proof you ever had of their alleged sexual relationship was the suspicions of an individual who has openly had grudges against both this young lady and the professor in the past. Are you honestly telling me your star witness is a doddering old fool with an axe to grind?"

"There was evidence—"

"Was it ever brought to trial? Before a jury of her peers?" each question was making Bartholomew sweat himself into a puddle of anxiety. Leland had her face buried in her hands; Burr's brows had disappeared into her fly-away hair; Iris was sitting and doing all she could to keep the smile of her face, "Were _any_ of her constitutional rights granted to the girl, or did you simply throw her in Arkham and toss away the key? Who made the arrest?"

"Commissioner Gordon," Iris said quietly, bringing attention back to her.

"And did he read you or otherwise inform you of your rights, my dear?"

"He did," she said truthfully. Burr's brows rose, if possible, even higher, almost in surprise or skeptically. Iris privately scoffed; what did the woman think she was going to do, lie about not being read her rights? She had no reason to seek revenge on James Gordon. She considered the entire police squad to be imbeciles, but the commissioner was of a different breed. He had read her rights to her upon arrest, had remained with her the entire night after she was arrested—even brought her hot chocolate for some warmth against the December chill. He had been present at the private hearing when she agreed to serve her term in Arkham, where it was agreed she could receive the "mental health treatment needed". Gordon had even personally escorted her to the asylum and remained with her through all the necessary proceedings. He was a good man, and a good officer. She had tutored his daughter, Barbara, in General Psychology before she was sentenced here. While she suspected this to be part of the reason for Gordon's kindness, she was not so conceited as to presume it the _only_ reason.

"But you were never taken to trial?" McLeven continued, brows furrowed deeply.

"That was a private arrangement." Iris said quietly, "I wanted to spare my father the shame of a public trial and the unavoidable media frenzy, so I arranged a deal with the district attorney to serve time here in Arkham. Miss Van Dorn believed the facilities here were better equipped to treat my anger management difficulties."

"There is one more matter at hand, Peter," Helen spoke briskly (rather shrilly), "Miss DeLaine, as noted by both Dr. Bartholomew and Dr. Leland, has shown very little improvement regarding how she responds to therapy questions. She is, and I quote, _withdrawn, uncooperative, and more often than not, she displays unemotional reactions that are characteristic of a sociopath._" She looked up, squinting her eyes at Iris, "Miss DeLaine, what was your childhood like?"

"Oh, don't start that questioning again!" McLeven scoffed, "This isn't a therapy session!"

"This is relevant to the situation at hand!"

"It's interrogation!"

While they were bickering, Iris' mind had suddenly taken an unexpected spin. She was suddenly remembering being in Arnold's arms…she heard her father's voice…and that woman's voice…they were talking…books…dolls…and then…

* * *

"_The books are for Iris…the dolls are for her sister."_

"_Sister? Whoever is her sister, my dear Marcus?"_

"_Ah, my eldest child," he said, putting on an expression of fond recollection that was so fake, Iris nearly cringed, "A lovely girl, really…and she's only about five years older than Iris." He patted her shoulder once again._

"_And how does she feel about having a sister?"_

"_Oh, she was positively ecstatic when I told her! Always wanted a little sister, you see…she's quite the caring and nurturing type. She'll make someone a fine wife and mother someday."_

"_Do the girls look alike?"_

"_Afraid not…they both have my eyes," again, the charming smile, "But my first born is blonde…Iris…well, Iris is her mother's clone, practically!"_

* * *

"My childhood was quiet, ma'am." She said quietly, once again bringing the attention back to herself, "As a child of high status individuals, it was not uneventful, but it was quiet and relatively normal. I have a roommate whom I lived with prior to my incarceration, and I have been in contact with her. I would be living with her once again and finishing my degree at Gotham State. I assure you all, I do not plan to leave Arkham flying blind."

"Well said," McLeven nodded approvingly, "Now then, I believe it is time to reach a verdict. Miss DeLaine, if you might be so kind as to excuse us?"

"Certainly," she said, already standing and ready to leave as soon as permitted.

"Very good. Dr. Leland will come for you once we have made our decision."

"Thank you," Iris nodded, standing and walking toward the door before the guard had to come and get her. She was in no mood to stay any longer than necessary.

* * *

About an hour later, Iris was in her cell, curled up on her cot, lost in her thoughts. The others were in the rec room for the evening recreation time, but Iris couldn't even pull herself off the bed to join them. Judging by the hoarse yells that include no small profanity, Waylon had been insulted, dimwitted, emotionally injured, or something of the like by Edward once again. The entire room was in an uproar…she could hear Scarface shouting something, his heavily accented voice all too audible even over that din. She caught some words and phrases, such as, "Let's go! Let's go!" and "You wanna piece? Come 'ere and get ya some!" She was certain that Arnold reminded the puppet about his blood pressure, because the next phrase she heard was, "I want yer opinion, I'll bloody give it to ya, dummy!"

She wasn't sure why her memory had chosen today of all days to recall that she had a sister. She wished it hadn't. It exposed her, the part of her that was, contrary to popular belief, capable of feeling emotions. Her childhood was either filled with painful—agonizingly painful—memories or filled with exceedingly vague details. It hurt to remember, in all meanings of the word. It just hurt.

The cell door suddenly opened, "Iris," Dr. Leland said, standing in the doorway, "They've reached a decision. Come on…we're waiting for you."

Taking a slow breath, she slowly stood and followed the doctor out into her office. The board was waiting for her when she arrived.

"Congratulations, Miss DeLaine," Dr. Bartholomew said. He seemed to have regained his composure from earlier, though he kept throwing frequent glances over at McLeven, who was busy with his pipe, "You have passed your competency hearing. We've made the calls to the court, and tomorrow, you'll be taken before a judge in open court, and they will make the final decision as to your future."

Iris collected her face into a small smile, a gracious and demure smile. She was quite used to producing this sort of smile; she had lived the first seven years of her life having to give this smile to strangers—the high social elite of Gotham City. Now was no different a time to give this smile. McLeven, she noticed, was still toying with his pipe, but couldn't seem to get it lit properly. With a smile, she reached out, holding a match in her hand, "Here, sir," she said, "Try this."

Bartholomew blinked, "Where did you get that, young lady?" he sputtered.

McLeven smiled as he took it from her, "I'm more curious as to where she's been _keeping_ it." He stated, finally getting a proper spark for his tobacco, "Ah, that's much better. Thank you, my dear." An idle flick of the fingers tossed the extinguished match into the wastebasket, "Now…" he took a long draft, "You'll be spending one last night here in the asylum, and then tomorrow afternoon, you'll be taken to the courthouse. It seems Commissioner Gordon has once again volunteered for the transportation, and District Attorney Van Dorn will be meeting you both there." He looked at her with gentle eyes, "Do you have any questions?"

"No, sir," she said politely, "May I be returned to my cell?"

"Certainly," McLeven said, standing before any of the other doctors could make a move, "And I'll escort her myself," he added to the guard before he could take a hold of her, "Have something new to look at on the walk over there, eh?"

She smiled, a bit more genuine this time. Peter McLeven reminded her so much of her grandfather, and there was a slight tug at her heartstrings at the thought of him. She very much doubted her father was bothering to check in on him, and she knew her mother certainly hadn't. But then again, she knew her grandparents kept small company—company that most definitely did not include Maria DeLaine. No doubt they would return to America when the fancy struck them.

"You look like her." The professor's voice suddenly interrupted her thoughts, bringing her attention back to him. He took a long look at her, then nodded slowly, "Aye…you look so like Sylvia…"

"You know her personally?" Iris inquired. His name had never been mentioned before, but Grandmama didn't possess a tendency to discuss her past in great length, unless she was asked specific questions.

He nodded, taking a puff on his pipe, "Met her back in '78…sharpest, boldest, most irrefutably stubborn woman I have ever met in my life…and by thunder was she the most beautiful thing I'd ever laid eyes on. I won't deny how jealous I was of your grandfather, lass." His accent came much more to light in private than in a professional setting. She preferred it this way, "First time I saw you, this morning when you walked in to the room…I wondered if you might be hers. I don't give a blast who says you look like your mother; you are Sylvia DeLaine in the flesh…down to those eyes of yours."

"Eye," she corrected quietly, indicating her right eye, the hidden one, "I'm afraid my right eye…it's not quite the same color…"

_Not anymore…_

"Bah," he dismissed, "Whatever color it is now, it's just as lovely as the other, I know it." He paused, "Cell 32…this yours, then?"

"Yes…" she said, stepping inside as the guard opened the door for her, "Thank you, Doctor…"

He bowed low to her, "The pleasure is mine, and the thanks belongs to you, my dear. Good evening."

She waited until the door had closed behind her, and then slowly turned around to face her silent, though not unexpected visitor. She took a slow breath, then spoke.

"I passed."

* * *

"They're taking me to the courthouse tomorrow afternoon," Iris murmured quietly, staring up through her barred window, peering at the inky black sky, wishing the moon was out, "And then the real verdict falls."

"You'll get nothing more serious than parole, Iris," Crane said, sounding hardly concerned about the possibility of a more severe sentence for her, "You should be ecstatic."

"Parole means restrictions…and we both know what will be at the top of that list," she said softly, her eyes still on the window, "Absolutely no contact with a certain former professor of mine."

"And what was the first lesson I ever taught you?" he said, catching her chin in two fingers and titling her face back to meet his gaze, "Rules are only viable…"

"…if you're caught breaking them." She finished, a smile tugging at her lips, "Fair enough…" the smile faded as quickly as it had come to her face, "But they're still victorious. They're still taking me away…away from this place, away from the others…away from you."

"No one will dare be so impertinent as to presume they can ever take you away from me, Iris DeLaine," he breathed, "I'll rip their throats out with my teeth first."

"Go on…" she murmured, "You're just saying that."

"I do not waste words…" he corrected her with a lazy caress over her face.

She smiled softly, catching his finger in a soft kiss, "So, Professor…are you going to give your student…a farewell gift?" her voice took on a far less innocent tone, a low seduction that crept its way into her exposed eye.

An arched brow rose slightly, "Miss DeLaine," he said slowly, "Are you attempting to seduce me?"

The look on her face mirrored his; both faces held expressions that spoke of much, but did little more than that, "Am I succeeding?" she answered demurely.

This time, the professor's thin mouth curled upward into a very sinister and very unprofessional smile, "I believe…you just might be…" he leaned forward, catching that dark, taunting mouth with his.

Her hands slowly slid around his waist, running upward on his back to curl on his shoulders, fingers winding and tangling in the thin cotton of his uniform shirt. He lifted himself on his knees and one hand, shifting his position from lying beside her to lying atop his former student. The hand that had not been supporting his weight was busy tracing idle, teasing patterns on her stomach. He kept this up for a while, waiting to see if she would beg or demand for skin to skin contact, but such a plea never slipped past her lips—hardly surprising, seeing as her mouth was busy with his. Finally, his own need caved his restraint slightly, and his hand ventured beneath her shirt. Triumphant with his surrender, Iris allowed one hand to leave his back and come to rest over his, holding it securely within her grasp and guiding it up under her clothing. It took very little time for her shirt to be fully removed.

He thought to stop and observe her, to take in the view once more as he had done so very often, but the night would pass sooner than he liked, and that desire was suppressed. He simply settled for letting his hands become his eyes, exploring over the territory which he knew so well, explored so many times before, but each time, it felt as innocent and entirely enthralling as the first. His fingers were interrupted in their quest by the thin cotton straps of her black brassiere.

He growled, disinclined to deal with such obstructions, "You wear too many clothes…" he stated in a low growl.

"So do something about it," she answered, eyes flashing and voice taunting, daring him.

"Disrespectful," he hissed, no longer in the mood to play games with these insolent articles of clothing. Why she insisted on tormenting him with these wretched things was a psychological mystery even _he_ didn't want to solve. Instead, he grabbed at the small clasp in back and yanked, hard. The garment came loose at once, but Iris' expression was less than pleased.

"If you break, damage, or destroy _one more_ of these, Jonathan Crane," she said coolly, "I will make you purchase me an entire new wardrobe of undergarments."

He scoffed, "With my excessive funds that I have so readily at hand?" he mumbled against her collarbone, attempting to distract her and get back to the more pressing matter.

She was not to be deterred, "Yes, and you _will_ buy them…as in actually pay for them with legally obtained money, thank you. I will not have the police confiscating little _gifts_ of stolen Victoria's Secret merchandise."

The professor gave a derisive laugh, "Now I know you are joking, Iris…you don't own anything from Victoria's Secret."

Her curious silence made him look at her face, where he found her to be wearing a highly insolent and extremely provocative smirk on her face, "Nothing that _you've_ gotten to see…"


	12. Goodbyes May Seem Forever

"_Don't be dismayed by goodbyes. A farewell is necessary before you can meet again. And meeting again, after moments or lifetimes, is certain for those who are friends."_

_~ Richard Bach_

Chapter 12: Goodbyes May Seem Forever

"SURPRISE!"

The blast of noise physically knocked Iris backward as she opened the door to the recreation room, but before she could fall and cause any real damage, two hands grabbed her on both arms and half-dragged her into the room. She blinked repeatedly to clear her head from the rattling shouts, as well as get the confetti that suddenly rained down out of the ceiling out of her eye. Finally, she could take a proper look around the room. Confetti was now littering the floors and furniture; the couch and armchairs had been pushed up together to create an odd half-circle in the center of the room. A table had been brought in to hold a small, two-layer cake. All around the cake and pouring down onto the floor were a ridiculous assortment of gifts, all wrapped in brightly colored paper. Hanging from the ceiling was a large banner, upon which the word _**Congratulations!**_ had been written in marker.

She finally let her eyes travel to the face on her left, which sported two wide blue eyes and a maniacally gleeful smile, "Surprise, Blue!" Harley squealed, "Do you like it? Huh, huh, huh?"

"Give her two seconds to answer," Ivy answered, though her smile was just as wide, if only a bit more reserved, "What do you think of it, Iris? A bit last minute, but that tends to happen when a certain someone doesn't mention she's being released today…" she gave Iris a meaningful glare.

"I would like to know just who _did_ tell the happy news…" she commented, throwing Dr. Leland a look. The psychiatrist blushed slightly.

"Oh, Iris…I couldn't resist."

"Obviously," Iris stated, though the tiniest smile tugged at her lips as she looked over the decorations, "And how did you all organize this little fiesta?" she asked.

Harley grinned, "Docta Leland helped us! She went out and got the cake and the decorations and the table and the gifts and everything! All _we_ had to do was throw it all together! So, do you like it?"

"I must say that I do…" Iris said, allowing herself to be pulled over to the couch and plopped down on the cushions. Harley sailed over to the pile of gifts, grabbing a hold of some and diving back to the couch, nearly landing on Iris' lap in the process, "Which one do ya wanna open first, Blue? Huh? Which one?"

"You all went overboard with this…" she commented, reaching into the jumble and fetching a rather large package, wrapped in bright pink paper and tied with a green ribbon, "Let me guess…Harley, Ivy, this one is from you."

Ivy winced slightly at the blinding shade of pink, "Harley insisted on the wrapping paper," the redhead said. The blonde pouted.

"I let you have a green ribbon on it!"

"Girls, let's not fight…" Iris said, smiling softly as she opened the box. Her eyebrow disappeared into her hairline, "Good God, you two…what do you expect me to do with this? Go trolling for drunken college apes?"

Harley burst into a fit of giggles at that statement; Ivy let a smirk tug at her mouth, but kept herself sophisticated, "Nonsense, Iris…we just thought you could use something fun and wild in your wardrobe."

"Are you instigating I can't dress myself?" Iris replied, smiling broadly, "I love it, ladies…absolutely perfect."

She neatly placed the outfit back in the box, keeping the bow but graciously discarding the pink wrapping paper. Her next gift was a small, clear object. She was mildly confused at first, then opened it up fully. It was clear but nice and small, as thought designed to fit in a small pouch for transportation. If she had to guess…she'd say it looked like—

"Underwater mask," Waylon grunted from beside the couch. Iris nodded; she was going to guess a safety mask for performing CPR, but this made much more sense, "Small enough to stick inside a bag or somethin' like that…supposed to be new technology…" he cleared his throat, "Sorry it ain't wrapped…kept tearing the paper…" he looked at his clawed hands almost apologetically.

Iris smiled softly and stood to place a kiss on his cheek, "Practical, useful, and thoughtful…thank you, my charming ladies' man…" her smile grew as she watched his grey skin turn a light hue of red and mumble something that sounded like, "Aww, shucks…" and shuffle away, trying to hide his blush.

"Oooh!" Harley beamed, "Open this one next, Blue!"

She plopped a smaller box, this one wrapped in green paper with that ever characteristic question mark embalmed upon the top. Iris slowly dragged a nail along the underside of the paper line, tearing the tape easily—which, she noticed, had been perfectly placed along the ends and exact middle of the paper. The box, once unwrapped, was black and made of a solid and quite firm material. Inside, she found a small device, one that could easily be held in the hand, and was designed with two small flaps that, when opened, revealed a digit pad and small black screen. She raised a brow slightly, then looked up at Edward, who was smiling proudly. "Let's just say this little token will solve any riddle that might come your way, m'dear…" Edward said with a slight purr to his voice.

The others groaned at his last ditch flirtation attempt, only to be shocked when Iris stood and placed a kiss right on his mouth, "There," she said when she pulled away, smirking, "You got your kiss. Happy?"

"I knew you would come to your senses!" he beamed, settling back in a chair with no small smugness on his face.

"C'mon, Blue!" Harley pawed at her arm pitifully, "Open the others, open the others!"

"Patience is not your virtue, Harl…" she said lightly, reaching out and catching the two presents Harley had suddenly started juggling, rescuing them before they were brought to any destructive harm. Eyeing the two in her hands—they appeared to be of similar size and shape—she finally elected to open the one in her left hand. Inside, to her slight surprise, she found another box, and inside that was another box, and inside that was another box, inside which she found a large silver coin, both sides smooth and shiny in the overhead lights. She raised her eyes with a smile, "Couldn't resist, right, Harvey?"

"I had to give you _some_ challenge, Iris…" he answered with a smile, fingering his own coin absently, "It's not good parenting to just let the child have whatever they want."

"I'll remind you of that when _you_ have kids," she said, ignoring his dismissive scoff and looking around, "Alright…what's next?"

Harley pushed Jervis forward, grinning, "Come on, Hat! Don't be such a school boy! Give her your gift!"

The Hatter was shifting awkwardly, but given that Harley promptly shoved him down onto the couch beside Iris, he didn't have much of a say in the situation. Slowly, he reached down into the pile (which Harley had eagerly rebuilt at Iris' feet) and pulled out a mildly long and wide package, wrapped in blue paper, and set it in her waiting hands, "It's not much…" he said, blushing furiously.

Silently, she opened the gift and smiled, "You remembered…" she said softly.

A tiny smile twitched his mouth, "Well…you have it nearly memorized…might as well own a copy to help along the process."

Her fingers traced slowly over the gold letters gleaming across the front cover, _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_, "Gives me something to do when I'm not trying to finish my thesis or grade papers and exams and quizzes and giving assistance during Office Hours, right, Jervis?"

He smiled. While everyone else was having a laugh over her statement, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, unwrapped box. He opened his mouth, but Iris silenced him with an understanding look. Before anyone else could notice, she'd slipped it into the box from Harley and Ivy, where it would remain unnoticed by the others.

A knock came at the door, and the bearded face of Peter McLeven poked around the corner, "I do hope I'm not interrupting the festivities," he said with a smile, "But I've brought a gift of my own for you, my dear…" he held up a small box and opened the lid to show the contents.

Amid the looks of confusion, Iris gave a gleeful sound and leapt off the couch, hugging him tightly before disappearing into the women's washroom. He chuckled and gave a bow to the inmates, "Dr. McLeven," he introduced himself, "I oversaw Miss DeLaine's hearing yesterday."

"Well, seeing as she's being released, I suppose thanks are in order," Ivy said with a gracious smile and slight inclination of the head, which the doctor returned respectfully.

A second and equally gleeful coo was heard from the door, followed by Iris half-twirling into the room, quite nearly imitating Harley in her actions. The prison uniform was gone, probably discarded with no grace on the bathroom floor, and replaced by black jeans, a pair of black leather boots that seemed to hit mid-calf beneath the jeans, and a black leather camisole the hitched up around the abdomen slightly to bare a bit of midriff.

"Ah…" she sighed happily, tossing her hair over her bare shoulder, "I feel like a human being again. Now…" she smiled, "Who wants cake?"

Harley squealed and hurtled herself at the table, quickly restrained by Ivy's quick (and well practiced) hands before she got a hold of the cutting knife. Iris smiled, watching them converge on the cake. Her eyes slowly traveled to the corner, where Professor Crane was standing beside the window, staring out thoughtfully.

A hand on his shoulder brought the professor out of his reverie; his dark eyes went to his left, where Iris stood looking at him, "Lost in the looking glass, Professor?" she asked with a smile.

"Hardly," he answered, taking her in with a quiet smile. She looked far more alive in her black attire than in the repulsive grey of the asylum's rags. Slowly, his hand rose from his side and laid something in her hand. She opened her palm to see the shape of a long, jet black crystal, fastened to a silver chain, lying cool against her skin. She looked up at him, then a dark smile passed over her features before passing away as quickly as it had come. She draped the crystal around her throat, where it came to rest just above her bust.

He caught her hand as it rested on his face, pressing a slow kiss to her wrist, feeling her pulse quicken at the touch. His eyes returned to hers, a silent moment passing before he brought the kiss to her mouth. Her fingers tangled in his shirt, wanting to bring him closer, but that would only fuel the fire that needed to be extinguished quickly. Their moment was passing, and would be gone just as soon as those two words were spoken…

The time came far too soon as Dr. Leland stepped back into the room, "Iris…" the tone of her voice made it unnecessary for her to continue. Within seconds, Iris was wrapped in the tight, nearly suffocating hold of Harley Quinn.

"Everything's gonna be so exciting and new for you…" she sniffled, lip quivering dangerously, "And it's all gonna be the same for us…except you won't be here…."

Iris let her eyes travel back to Crane's. His black eyes remained calm and collected, but there was a definite tightness in his posture. She swallowed and looked back at the others, trying to manage a small smile, "Don't turn on the water works now, Harl…." She whispered, her voice catching distinctly.

"It seems like yesterday you were here…" the blonde was on the verge of melting into a puddle of tears now, "And now…ten months, come and gone…and you're leavin' us again…"

"No," she whispered, keeping her voice low, these words reserved only for them, "I'm not going anywhere…because I have no illusions that any of you intend to just let me go…"

"Not without a fight," Waylon added, his voice slightly more gruff with the emotion build-up, "You know…you know that if you ever need us," he gave a quiet cough, trying to keep himself intact a little longer, "You just call and we'll—_I'll_ be there….so you just call, alright?"

She nodded, "I know, Waylon…I know."

"I don't…I don't even think it's the Rogue Gallery…not without you in it…" Harley whimpered.

Iris shook her head, "You all were the Rogue Gallery before I came ten months ago…and you're going to be after I've left. Don't be a pack of drama queens about it." Her voice caught again, and she forced herself to cough softly to keep herself collected.

The door opened once again, "Iris, it's time…" Leland said, a bit more firmly this time. Iris made to move, but a great collection of arms wrapped around her waist, bringing her back into the circle. "Come here, you…" Ivy said, holding her tightly.

"I'm gonna miss you, Blue!" Harley wailed, finally dissolving against Iris' bare arm.

"Keep outta trouble, ya hear?" Waylon added with a betraying loud sniffle.

Leland sighed, about to call Iris once more when McLeven appeared with a camera in hand, "Alright, all of you…get together…a bit closer now…there! Perfect…alright…one…two…three….say cheese!"

* * *

BAM! BAM!

"The defendant will stand," the judge's voice thundered through the relatively quiet courtroom. To the left of his station sat the brunette District Attorney, Janet Van Dorn, with Commissioner Gordon. To the right was Iris, alone. She stood quietly, raising her eyes to the meet the dark blue eyes of the judge.

"Iris Mara DeLaine, District Attorney Van Dorn had requested that the maximum sentence of two years in Arkham Asylum be imposed upon you." A brief pause, in which Iris could just see that glimmer of triumph on Van Dorn's face as she waited for the final judgment to fall…only to have her face fall immediately as the judge cleared his throat and continued.

"However, seeing as you have received excellent recommendations from your doctors at Arkham, and you have passed your competency hearing with flying colors, I am hereby releasing you on parole."

She did not yet allow her face to show any emotion. To seem eager and _too_ pleased aroused suspicion; to seem disappointed indicated she was ungrateful for the leniency and would cause the ruling to be reconsidered. She merely waited patiently to hear the inevitable terms of her parole.

"I do warn you, Miss DeLaine…" the judge said, locking eyes with hers, "There is one, and only one, condition of your parole—to have absolutely no contact with Professor Jonathan Crane. Should you violate this condition, you'll earn yourself a one-way ticket to Blackgate Prison. Do I make myself clear?"

"Inescapably, transparently clear, Your Honor," Iris answered, finally allowing a small expression of gratitude to appear on her face.

"Very well…then in the matter of the State of New York versus Iris DeLaine…this case is closed. Miss DeLaine, you are free to go."

* * *

The commissioner's personal car drove down the streets, making a nice and rather relaxing drive from the courthouse. Iris sat in the passenger seat, her elbow propped up on the window sill, hand resting against her face, index finger tapping against her temple. Slowly, a large hand rested on her bare shoulder. It was a warm hand; the fingers and palm were slightly calloused, and there were defined wrinkles and other lines in the palm…the marks of a hand that had seen many years, worked every day of the years it had been on earth, and, above all, this hand had tasted loss and rejoiced in the gains that could only come with heavy and painful loss. This hand belonged to a mind and a soul who had lived life…and good or bad, they had taken everything and made the best of it.

She turned over to meet the soft, dark eyes of James Gordon. His eyes were dark blue of her father, but her father's held none of the commissioner's warmth and sympathy. These were the eyes of a father…someone who could look at a young girl and feel something—feel an emotion that didn't speak of disappointment and regret.

"I thought we would stop for a little something," Gordon said with a comforting smile as the car pulled into a local drive-thru, "My treat."

"Thank you," she said softly, "I'll be kind to your wallet, Commissioner…All I need is a bottle of water. I'm a cheap date."

"And you're still single?" he teased, unable to resist the joke. Fortunately, it seemed she had quite the good sense of humor, as she smiled and gave a light shrug.

"It's entirely my fault, Commissioner," she said, "I have high expectations."

"And there is nothing wrong with that." He said, leaning out the window towards the small black box. While he ordered, Iris' eyes fell down to the small photo tucked away on the dashboard. A smile on her lips, she reached out, tugging the photo free and looking at it carefully, "Her senior portrait?" she asked, indicating the picture, "Shouldn't you be updating a bit, Commissioner?"

He chuckled, "Most likely…I'm just an old man in denial that his daughter's growing up, and there's nothing I can do to stop it."

She smiled, arching a brow ever so slightly, "I think Barbara would appreciate that at least you accept your inability to let her go."

"What can I say?" he shrugged, "Such is the father's way."

She didn't answer, merely sipped her bottled water thoughtfully. The rest of the drive was quiet, until the commissioner's vehicle had pulled into the drive of 400 Hollow Way. It was a rather lovely townhouse in the middle of a small but orderly neighborhood—one of those places that people could proudly say they personally knew all their neighbors—or at least knew _of_ them. The buildings in this area were limited to around two stories high, not including the furnished basement that came standard with all the townhouses. The exterior of each house was painted a neutral cream color, perhaps a bit darker than a typical shade of cream, something which Gordon was sure Iris appreciated, considering any pale colors made her visibly shiver. Each house came with three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a fully furnished kitchen and living room—all the comforts of home. All bedrooms had a small balcony; the doorway was tucked under a lovely and quite tall archway. The door itself was simply designed, with only a small bit of trim around the doorframe, and around the brass knocker hanging in the center of the door.

Gordon strolled around to the back of his car, opening the trunk and gathering up two of the packages Iris had been carrying out from the asylum. After she had fetched the other two remaining items, he reached up and closed the trunk with a push from his elbow, "The talents of an old man," he said to her as they walked up the stone-paved path and arrived at the front door. Balancing both packages on her left hip, Iris reached into his indicated pocket and pulled out her set of keys, which had been confiscated at her arrest. The key slipped effortlessly into the lock, and with a slight turn, the door opened. She set the boxes inside, then relieved him of his own burdens, making a neat pile which would be dealt with later.

"There we are, then," he said cheerfully, straightening up, "Here," he reached into his pocket and retrieved a small white card, "My card…both numbers on it…if you ever need to reach me."

Two black-tipped fingers reached out, taking it slowly, "Thank you, Commissioner." She said quietly, "I won't forget what you have done for me."

He gave a light bow of the head, then walked back to his car, whistling merrily as he did. She let her mouth twitch up into a small half smile and then stepped inside, relishing the cool air conditioning that met her as she did. The tiled entry hall looked as though it had been recently mopped, probably this morning, knowing her roommate. With a smile, she stepped around the corner, leaning against the wall as her eyes found that familiar petite figure and head of lovely blonde hair.

"Greeting, Alice…did you miss me?"


	13. Home Sweet Home

**A/N: Finally, an update!! My apologies to all my readers out there, but I have finally updated for Chapter 13! **

**Disclaimer: Grandma Lorina belongs to Charlotte A. Cavatica. Alice's mother also makes an appearance. She is shared by Charlotte and I. Thanks to her for lending the characters!!**

**Please review!**

* * *

"_Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in."_

_~Robert Frost_

Chapter 13 – Home Sweet Home

"_Iris_!" the blonde all but hurled herself into the expectant arms of the dark-haired girl, winding her smaller arms around the narrow waist and hugging fiercely, "Oh, Iris, you're back! Oh, this is wonderful…I've missed you so much! They told me you were getting out today…but Miss Van Dorn wouldn't let me inside the courtroom!"

"I'm not surprised." Iris answered, tilting her head up slightly to take a long, slow breath of the air, "Hmm…someone has been bustling about in the kitchen. And just what have we been cooking, Alice dear?"

"Well," she said, turning with a business-like air, blonde curls whispering about her face and shoulders, "You told me, and I quote: if you can read, you can cook. So I decided to go out and buy myself every cooking book I could get a hold of…and I just started cooking! It was a bit of a rocky start—I'm terribly glad you weren't here to see the meatloaf disaster—but I think I might have just got it down to where I can get a firm grip on it!"

"Good to hear," Iris said, hoisting her packages on one hip while swinging her bag over the other shoulder, "I do believe my faith might be quite secured in you, dear Alice, seeing as you haven't managed to burn the house down in the ten months I left you alone."

"No, but I came close," the blonde sighed heavily, giving her head a light shake, "I still can't believe I did that…I know you taught me to keep a close eye on it…and I was only gone for five minutes…"

"You are a very special individual, Alice Pleasance," Iris said, eyes dancing with playful teasing, "Only you could set a meatloaf on fire in five minutes."

"Oh hush!" she scolded, blushing shamelessly, "You're terrible, Iris…truly, terrible."

"And terribly accurate." Iris returned smoothly, "I'm going upstairs to unpack."

"Hurry along, Iris. Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes."

"Yes, _Mother_…"

"Iris!"

* * *

If anyone happened to see Iris' room, then compare it to Alice's, they would automatically wonder how on earth these two women ever became best friends, let alone roommates. The blonde's room was painted a clean and bright ivory color, with pastel colors flitting about the room with her bed covers, pillows, and curtains. The room, like the rest of the house, was simply furnished with only a bed, dresser, adjacent bathroom, and a small writing desk located beside the window. Alice often spent time at this desk with her poetry journal; the desk was a present from Iris for the blonde's last birthday, a simple and small piece crafted from dark cherry wood with a neat gold trim. It was hardly similar to the other pieces in the room, which were built from light oak wood, but Alice hardly cared about matching the items properly. It was a splendid piece, and she would never consider being rid of it.

Iris' room, by complete contrast, was black all around, with specks of silver tossed in, provided by the cushions on the window seat and the throw blanket on the bed. Her vanity was much smaller than Alice's, built only with a small mirror (there was a full-length mirror in the closet) and two small drawers on either side, which held a variety of items, including her hair brush and a few small hair ties for those rare occasions when she would pull her hair back into braids or a ponytail. The dresser rested up in the corner nearest to the door; on the other side of the doorway rested her double-door closet. Moving clockwise around the room, there was a set of white-paned windows and a fairly large sill, though nothing big enough to serve as a window seat. The bed was rested up right against the windows, the mattress surface not far beneath the ledge. From here, Iris was granted a view of the moon every night; every night the moon was to be seen, the black drapes were drawn back, fastened on silver hooks bolted to the wall, to allow the silver light access to the teenager's room, where it would serve as a silent lullaby.

Up against the fourth wall was Iris' desk. It was considerably larger than Alice's writing desk, but seeing as the blonde's served only as a poetry station, and Iris' was entirely for her school work, the size difference was understandable. That wasn't to say that Alice never had work to deal with at home; she usually did her office work in the kitchen. Having worked in an office setting for her entire professional career, the clamor and disruptions of the kitchen had long ceased to disturb her. Iris, however, required a bit more of a private setting to properly function. After sitting in less than learner-friendly classrooms all day, she withdrew to the quiet peace of her room. Alice, however, was always free to pop in whenever she pleased. Iris kept her door open, and for Alice, it was an open invitation to come in at her leisure.

The bag which had carried Iris' few belongings to and now from Arkham landed on the bag with a nearly silent _thump_. The boxes were laid beside it with a nearly reverent movement; Iris gazed down at the gifts for a long moment before turning towards her closet, slowly removing her clothes as she did so. The garments were quietly discarded to the floor in a neat, nearly uniform pile which would be sent down to the small laundry room in the basement later tonight. Her feet padded quietly on the carpet, then tapped against tiled floor as she entered the bathroom.

Her hand reached in and twisted the water dial for _HOT_. A quiet sigh and smile escaped her as she watched the bathroom begin to steam up with the water. Finally…after ten months, she would finally be able to have a decent shower.

* * *

Ten minutes later found Alice thoughtfully stirring a large simmering pot with a wooden spoon. She might have felt a bit old-fashioned in such a position, but her mind was far too full of scattered thoughts to entirely consider her appearance to an outsider's eye. Her own eyes were trained on a small glass vase, perched neatly on the window sill of the kitchen. Inside this vase was a bright pink rose, brought to full bloom by the water and nurturing care it had received over the last couple days. The small note, upon which were written only two words, was propped up beside it, leaning against the vase innocently.

Her thoughts were distracted as footsteps approaching from upstairs informed her that her roommate was coming back down. Her head turned slightly to see Iris, just as she turned the corner from the foyer into the kitchen. She had redressed in shorts and a loose fitting T-shirt, though the hem to the shirt bared her midriff slightly. A towel was in her hand, clenching at various spots in her damp hair. She paused and ran her fingers through her dark strands; seeming satisfied that it was dry enough, she opened the basement door and tossed the towel down to be washed later.

"You do know that it's your turn to start doing laundry, right?" Alice commented, stirring the contents of the pot idly, lifting the spoon to sample the sauce carefully, "I've had to do it myself for the last ten months; now I expect you to start earning your keep around here again."

"You poor thing…forced to do all this by yourself while I've been gone? However did you survive?" Iris paused in thought, "Oh! I remember…the more frustrated you become, the cleaner the house gets. And judging by the looks of the place…" two long fingers swept along the window ledge, examining for dust and finding none, "You've been positively boiling over with frustration, my dear."

"Maybe," Alice said, making a feeble attempt to steer the conversation out of dangerous waters. But, as she and Iris knew quite well, she never was an adept sailor.

"Well, if my sweet Alice is frustrated…Billy boy talk can't be far behind." Iris said, perching herself on the counter beside the stove, "So tell me…what's going on?"

"We had a little fight," Alice replied, once again making the (futile) attempt to brush the whole ordeal away, "It's nothing to worry about, Iris. Come on, now…I spent the last few hours making this meal for you…let's not waste it."

"I hold no intentions of wasting a meal that consists of _real_ food, dear Alice," Iris said, retrieving two bowls with one hand and two glasses in the other, "And at any rate, I'm quite offended that you would so much as consider me rude enough to dismiss a perfectly good meal when I see one. Especially one prepared by you. Now comes the time for me to see if your cooking has improved."

"Indeed you will," Alice said, bringing two pots over, one at a time of course, "Oh, thank you," she added as Iris pushed the ceramic pot mats under the heated dishes, "Alright, Iris…here's your surprise." She caught her lower lip in her teeth, looking like an anxious child waiting for approval from a parent.

"Spaghetti with homemade sauce…and garlic bread," Iris' eyes glowed with approval, "Italian night, hmm? You do spoil me, Alice."

"Nonsense," the blonde smiled, sweeping her purple skirts neatly beneath her and settling into the chair with good grace, "You had to know that we would be eating a proper meal, now you're back and free once and for all."

"Bless your heart," Iris said, fetching a helping of spaghetti from the strainer, first for Alice, then for herself. One thing the blonde admired about Iris: arrogant and cynical though she was, Iris always had very good manners. Guests were taken care of before hosts, always.

"Say 'when', Alice," she continued, ladling up the steaming sauce and pouring it over the bowl of noodles.

After three small helpings, Alice held up a hand, "That will do, Iris. Thank you kindly."

"Don't mention it," Iris answered, helping herself to the sauce, giving herself two spoonfuls and then rising to put both pots back on the stove. Alice watched her rather anxiously, worrying herself, in Iris' opinion, far too much, that the younger girl might burn herself. Her fears, however, were quickly vanquished as Iris placed the cooking pots back with no damage to them or herself. Turning around, her dark lips curved into a half-smile.

"Fret not, young one," she crooned, gliding back into her seat, "It takes more than that to bring injury to little ol' me."

"Don't get cocky, Iris." Alice scolded, her eyes twinkling and refuting her reprimand.

Iris gave her long mane a light toss over the shoulder, throwing her roommate a smirk, "Cocky? Me? Alice, I'm offended. I'm not cocky…I'm arrogant and cynical, but I'm certainly not cocky."

"You forgot to add shameless in that list, Iris."

She gave a mock gasp, flinging a limp-wristed hand to her chest, "My gracious, so I did! How ever could I forget that one?"

Alice rolled her eyes, unable to keep a smile from her face any longer, "How indeed? You're undoubtedly the most shameless person I know."

"You haven't met Edward Nygma." Iris commented, taking a sip of her virgin margarita.

"The Riddler?" Alice whispered, a sudden and unexpected flare of excitement, "Oh, no, I've never met him, Iris, you know that. But…but I might like to! What's he like?"

The blonde's enthusiasm was highly unanticipated, as Iris demonstrated with a blank look. After a few minutes, Iris leaned forward, "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Of course, I am!!" Alice said, looking at her with wide, eager eyes, "I'm more serious than I've been about anything, Iris!! What's he like? Tell me, tell me!!"

"Calm down, Alice, you're going to upset the sauce," Iris said, taking a long sip of her drink to drain it, and then stood up to refill it, "Need anything while I'm up?"

"No…" Alice turned in her chair, throwing Iris her best pout. It wasn't necessarily going to work, and she knew it…but at least she was giving it a try.

"You know, Alice…I am surprised." Iris stated, "I would have thought you'd be groveling for a tale about how Jervis is doing."

"Oh…well, I just figured that if you were going to tell me, you would do it."

Iris paused in the process of pouring the lime juice, then craned her long neck to look at Alice; as she suspected, the blonde had suddenly turned a shade of pink that Pamela's roses would have been proud of, and was fidgeting in her chair with a piece of her hair. Her teeth worried with her lower lip; her eyes downcast with an awkward expression that Iris hadn't seen in ears.

"I mean, really…" Alice continued, always a clear sign she was about to start rambling, "If—If I was really interested in how Jervis was doing, I would just call him—er, I mean visit him! It's not like they would stop me—that is if I wanted to see him. I d-don't hate him, of course, but we are…well, on very different sides now…almost like the cowboys and outlaws in those old movies that—"

"The last time you were talking like this, you were trying to tell me that Cheshire had destroyed my exam notes," Iris said. Her voice was calm and light, but she was strolling around the corner of the kitchen island with a look in her eyes that never boded well for Alice, "Is there something you would like to tell me _this_ time, Alice dear?"

"N-no…of course not! Why ever would you think that?" the blonde asked, staring down at the floor as though it was suddenly a very intriguing location.

"Alice…sweet, dear, darling Alice…" now Iris was directly beside her, perched on the edge of the table, looking like a vulture about to dive down on unsuspecting prey, "Let us not play these little games, you understand just how terribly they _irritate_ me, don't you?"

Alice swallowed hard, raising her eyes slowly, "It…it wasn't anything…nothing happened…I promise…I j-just…well…oh, Iris!" she all but launched herself forward, clinging to the younger girl's hands like a desperate child, seeking help from a kind stranger, "Iris, please promise me…promise you won't tell Mother!"

"I can't stand your mother, Alice," she replied in her usual blunt fashion, "The less I have to see of that miserable old broad, the better. Now, _what happened_?"

Alice swallowed again, "I don't need to know how Jervis is doing from you…" her lower lip quivered, "He told me himself."

* * *

"Alright…when did it happen?" Iris said heavily. It wasn't as though she was entirely surprised; Jervis' second little gift had been rather unexpected, considering the whole premises on which he'd been released on parole (short though it had been) was to not see or have any sort of contact with Alice Pleasance. The small box he had given her, meant for Alice of course, would not have come to mind without some exterior motivation.

At least now she was going to find out.

"When he was on parole…" she whispered, "He came to the old apartment, sometime when I wasn't there. He…he left that flower." She pointed with a shaking hand to the vase, "With a note," she indicated the card, "All it said was…he asked me to forgive him. I knew the flower could have been there for hours…but in this weather, and the entrance hall into that place doesn't have heating…I hoped that maybe it wasn't there long."

"Why were you back at your apartment anyway, Alice?"

"I got a call from my old landlord, telling me that I had forgotten a few things when we moved. Also…" she blushed slightly, "Dick Grayson was walking me home that night. He was acting so strange…so protective of me. I get enough of that from Billy, and it wasn't like I didn't _know_ why he was acting like that…so I let him take me back to the apartment…"

"And didn't mention that you had moved six months ago? You cunning girl…" Iris praised in a crooning voice, tussling the blonde hair and bringing those pink lips up into a small smile.

"But…But I ran outside. It had started raining when I was inside…not hard at first, but it got worse…and I just started running…"

_

* * *

_

What had previously been a mere trickle and sprinkle, as Grandma Lorina used to say, was suddenly a downpour of cold droplets. Alice shivered without her coat, wrapping her arms around herself as she continued running through down the sidewalk. She had to repeatedly blink away the rain, which clung to her eyelashes and made it even more difficult to see than it already was. Her clothes were nearly soaked through—thank God she had worn a dark blue blouse instead of white today; her dark grey pencil skirt provided little protection for her bare legs, making her shiver violently as a draft rustled around her exposed skin. Pushing wet hair from her face, she turned the corner to find herself facing down a darkened alley. Shaking her head again, she continued on down the sidewalk. Only seconds later, she felt a large, rather broad hand clamp down over her shoulder. Whirling around, her eyes met those of a broad-shouldered, rather bulky figure. After a few seconds, she recognized him as one of the players on the football team at the University. He'd made several passes at her before, but that was all when she had someone there to protect her. That person wasn't there now…and there was no way she'd be able to outrun him in this weather and in her clothes.

"_What're you doing out here like this, babe?" she grimaced and nearly retched at the stench of tobacco and alcohol on him. How on earth did he pass the mandatory drug tests for the team? "Did the poor little kitten get caught out in the rain?"_

"_No…no, I didn't." she replied, keeping her voice calm and her gaze even, "I just needed to find someone. I'll be going now—"_

"_What's your hurry, hm?" he caught her by the arm, his large hand nearly wrapping entirely around her petite arm, "I'd be happy to dry you off…warm you up…"_

"_Let go of me…" she whispered, but her voice shook and refuted her intended command, "Please…" no, she shouldn't have done that! Iris always told her to be firm, __**never**__ say please! It shows weakness!_

"_Oooh…playing hard to get? I like that…"_

"_I said, let go!!" she tried again, but there was a definite plea in her voice that showed weakness again. Why couldn't she just say no and be done with it!_

_Whatever he was about to say never left his mouth. Seconds later, his grip on her arm slackened, as did his jaw. There was a look of stupor on his face, as though he'd suddenly entered a trance._

_A quiet "tut, tut, tut" came from behind her, "Did your mother never teach you the proper fashion of how to treat a lady? Quite uncouth of you, sir."_

_Her heart skipped a beat. She knew that voice. She knew who was standing behind her without even turning around, but turn around she did…if only to confirm that he was standing behind her. He had saved her…yet again…even after everything._

"_Now then…why don't you run along and do something useful?" the top hat tilted up slightly, showing those sharp blue eyes, "Go…go tell the commissioner what you were trying to do, hm? I'm sure he'd love to hear it."_

_The other male gave a dull-voiced answer and turned away, walking like some sort of zombie. Alice turned back, seeing the hesitation in her rescuer's blue eyes. He was awaiting her verdict…__**sentence first, verdict afterwards**__._

_And she gave her verdict and sentence all in one._

_She ran and threw herself into his arms, crying softly into his chest._

* * *

"He took me back…back to the theater," Alice murmured. The girls had since moved from the kitchen table to the living room. Alice was curled up on the couch, with what looked like at first glance a ball of black fur with two small yellow eyes, "He…he helped me…made me feel safe again. But then…he always did…"

"How long did you stay with him?"

"About…about three days." She whispered, "Mother's been nearly hounding me for my whereabouts ever since he was placed back in Arkham. She's convinced that…that he abducted me again. Every hour, it's been another phone call…another interrogation about where I've been, who I've been with, what I've been doing…"

"The five basic interrogation questions," Iris said with a roll of the eyes, "Charming…"

_RING! RING! RING!_

After the fourth ring, there was a quiet click, then Alice's recorded voice came out over the message machine, "Hi, you've reached Alice Pleasance. I'm not here right now, so leave a name and number! Thank you!"

"ALICE!! I know you're there, now pick up this phone right this _instant_!!"

"Right on schedule," Alice sighed.

Iris threw up her hands, "Rum or Sangria?" she said, heading for the liquor cabinet.

"Both, if you please…" she answered before reluctantly picking up the phone, "Yes, Mother?"


	14. Seven Layers of Hell

"_I'm not concerned about all hell breaking loose, but that a PART of hell will break loose…it will be much harder to detect."_

_~ George Carlin_

Chapter 14: Seven Layers of Hell

"I'm not going."

Alice turned with a huff, crossing her arms over her chest in an attempt to look as stern and dignified as possible, fixing her attempt at a glare on Iris. The dark-haired girl was sitting on the bed, one knee crossed over the other, arms folded in a more convincing manner as she returned the blonde's glare, though she did a much more appropriate job of doing it. Cheshire seemed to sense the tension in the air; the kitten was hiding beneath Iris' bed skirt, with only those sharp gold eyes piercing out through the darkness. The tiny tip of the black tail swirled to and fro, occasionally batting against Iris' bare foot, which she clearly didn't notice.

"Iris—"

"The answer is _**no**_. Absolutely not, no way in hell." Iris said coolly, leaning back to recline on her elbows, "I'm not going, Alice. And that is the end of this story."

"Iris, it's only for a couple hours, for god's sake!" the blonde insisted, "What's the harm in attending a gala at the University for only a few hours? Why don't you want to do this?"

"Why? Because I only just got out of one corner of hell, Alice! I'm not about to go hop the train to go back into another area of hell."

"Calling Arkham hell is acceptable and understandable, Iris." Alice sighed, rubbing her temple with two fingers, "But don't you think it's a little much to be christening a simple gala to be a bit extreme?"

"Arkham is the fifth layer of hell," Iris answered dryly, "This…is called welcome to the seventh circle of hell."

The blonde threw up her hands, "Iris! It's three hours at most! Just…" her eyes sparked to life as an idea came to her mind. Iris always knew that to be a danger sign, even worse than when she had her own crazy ideas.

She leaned forward, her frustrated look slowly conforming to a rather innocent pout, "Do this for me, Iris? Please?"

"Alice, I am not going to this thing. And nothing and no one is going to change my mind."

* * *

"Threatening to call Leland was completely unnecessary,"

"But effective all the same," Alice beamed, having returned to her perky and cheerful nature now that Iris was firmly planted in front of the mirror with a brush running through her hair. Alice had chosen half an hour ago to ignore the disgruntled look on Iris' face; this was not a terribly difficult task, as she was quite content with her duty of brushing that long mane of black hair out. "Now, I think we should do something simple, but elegant all the same. What say you, Iris?"

"I say that you're worse than I am when it comes to bribery—not even that, but threatening." She grumbled in response, resting her angular jaw on her stacked fists.

"Oh, tush," Alice dismissed airily, "You're still the queen of such things, Iris. And you always will be, I might add."

"Oh, go on…" Iris scoffed, though the tiniest smile was twitching up her mouth, "You're just saying that."

Alice gave a quiet giggle, giving the dark mane a few more careful brushes, then stepping back to admire her work, "I think that will do." She said after a moment, "Perhaps maybe a half-and-half look?"

"I'll leave that up to you, Alice. You know I really don't care about things like that." She replied, standing up to stretch her long legs for a moment. Her hand reached down idly, fetching the invitation from her desk and giving it a distasteful look. Alice sighed at the return of a less than pleasant expression on her roommate's face.

"Iris, really…you should be thrilled about this. Dr. Long wasted no time in inviting you to one of the university's most important events!"

"And that, my dear one, is precisely the problem. _He didn't waste time_." Iris gave a quiet groan, reaching up to rub her temples slowly, as though to ease the headache that was imminent, "He wasted no time in sending out an invitation, and it wouldn't surprise me in the slightest if he made quite the public ordeal out of it. At first glance, this might seem quite lovely and forgiving. What it really is…it's his way of welcoming back the poster child for Arkham's rehabilitation. And I am not interested in posing."

Alice bit her lower lip slightly, "I'm sorry…" she whispered, lowering her head, "I suppose I hadn't considered such a thing…I'm sorry, Iris. If you don't want to—"

"I'll go," Iris cut her off quietly, "It's not like I have much of a choice at this point." Her eyes drifted over to see the blue eyes reddening slightly, "Hey…don't cry, Alice, alright? This isn't your fault. You know I hate it when you cry, do don't start."

"Your sympathy is heartwarming…" Alice murmured, unable to keep a small smile from her face. Iris had a blunt and rather harsh way of comforting people, a "tough love" approach if you will. But she took it all the same. She'd grown to appreciate it over the last year, almost two years in fact.

"I do what I can," Iris gave a half smile before stepping behind the thick velvet dressing curtain hanging from the ceiling in a far corner of her room.

Cheshire pranced out from under the bed at last, giving her black fur a tussle to be rid of the dust particles. Alice giggled quietly, "Well, there you are…" she reached down to give her kitten a soft stroke to the small, furry head.

The tiny cat replied with a soft lick to her palm, then strolled across the room to the drawn curtain. The blonde swallowed hard, "No…Chesh, get back here! Now!"

Golden eyes trained back on her for a moment, as though considering her mistress' words for a moment, then she turned back and slipped under the heavy hem of the curtain, leaving only a tiny tip of her tail exposed. Alice quietly considered making a grab for the kitten's tail to pull her out, but she'd made that mistake once already, and it had taken her two weeks to heal from the scratches. Alice had seriously reevaluated her previous hard line stand against getting her pet declawed.

"Well, hello there." Iris' voice interrupted her thoughts; her eyes turned to the curtain. It was still drawn closed, but there was definite movement behind the curtain, and Cheshire's tail had disappeared entirely, "And did you come here to help me get dressed, hm? Well, I'm sorry, Miss Cheshire…but I'm quite capable of dressing myself." A low purr followed her words, and then Alice watched her pet exit the curtain and trot up to the pair of black heeled sandals waiting within arm's reach beside the curtain. Giving them an inquisitive sniff, she then climbed on top of one, perching herself on the heel.

"No, no," Alice said, though she was smiling as she scooped up her pet, "You can play in my shoes later, Cheshire. Iris has a very important event to get to tonight…you wouldn't want her to be late, would you?"

Another lick to the nose was her answer. She smiled, holding the small ball of fur close and stroking her head with fingers, "Of course you would…more attention for you, you needy little thing."

"Let's not forget destructive little thing…" Iris said. Her blue-tipped fingers appeared from behind the curtain for a moment, grabbing the shoes and then disappearing.

"Oh, Iris…you're not still upset about your psychology notes, are you?" Alice asked, shaking her head, "She was only a baby…she was still teething!"

"I can't wait to see you as a parent, Alice. I wonder how much your children will be able to get away with, just because they're _teething_."

The blonde huffed quietly, "You'd be the same with your children, Iris."

"_Child_, if that," Iris corrected her as she finally pulled the curtain back and stepped out, "I stop at one, Alice. You want more than that, be my guest. Just don't expect me to babysit."

"Spoil sport…"

"Sticks and stones, darling," Iris answered, gliding back down into her seat and examining herself for a moment. She was never one to spend time sprucing, but since Dr. Long had gone to such trouble to invite her to such an _important_ event, she must look her best. While Alice busied herself tending to Iris' hair style for the evening, she brushed the tiniest layer of mascara over her eyelashes. There was no real need for eye makeup. She only had one eye to worry about, and her lashes were naturally dark enough that makeup didn't really matter; more often than not, you couldn't even tell she was wearing it. For one last touch, she applied a light gloss. Dark lips made lipstick unnecessary, but a natural gloss gave her a light shine.

"Alright," Alice said, "And I only used three bobby pins, per your request last time."

"Is it my fault that I don't appreciate my head being used as a pin cushion?" Iris returned, brushing a few stray hairs from her eyes. With a low, careful breath, she turned back to get Alice's approval. When she was answered with a beaming smile—one of those smiles that Iris had come to appreciate and recognize as genuine, not condescending—she smiled herself and stood up.

"Don't wait up," she said softly.

* * *

"Miss Van Dorn," Dr. Long said, strolling forward, hand at the ready for her to accept in a greeting, "How lovely of you to attend. I was worried you wouldn't make it."

"Oh, don't worry, Doctor," the district attorney returned with a smooth smile, "I wouldn't have missed this event. After all, we must be very supportive of Miss DeLaine." There was a definite strain to her smile at the mention of the teenager, but Long either didn't notice or ignored it, "She's come so far…" Van Dorn continued, "And she doesn't have too much support, family wise. You were very kind to arrange this for her."

"Of course, of course," he said rather dramatically, "No trouble at all. Speaking of which…where is the guest of honor, anyway?"

"Perhaps she was caught in traffic. Or…" she gave a quiet sniff, "Quite possible she decided to play the ungracious guest and not attend."

"Or not…" Long said, his attention suddenly captivated to something at the top of the stairs. The brunette frowned at first as she looked up. All she saw were students standing together in a circle, chatting animatedly about something—most likely the end of mid term exams, she guessed, remembering Gordon's daughter talk about her own relief at the ending of the test period.

Then the crowd parted, and she saw what Long had been stunned by.

Iris DeLaine was standing at the top of the stairs, holding a glass of champagne in her long fingers, painted a vibrant shade of blue that flattered her pale skin surprisingly well. Her dress was simple but captivating all the same—a black, strapless gown that appeared to be silk with a velvet hem. There was a slit at the right knee; some sort of glimmering thread was woven throughout the skirt, extending up to the bodice in a simple pattern of roses, complete with leaves and stems. Her hair was pulled up and held with what looked like a small black clip, letting her black curls fall down her back. A set of silver chandelier earrings hung from her ears.

Standing with her was Dick Grayson and Barbara Gordon, both of which looked delighted to see her again. When her blue eye found Long and Van Dorn standing in the foyer, she excused herself and stepped down to approach them.

"Dr. Long, thank you so much for this…" she murmured, accepting his outstretched hand and shaking it slowly, "I really think you've outdone yourself with this. I don't need such a momentous party to welcome me back."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," the director said, composing himself and recovering from his shock, "You deserve this, Miss DeLaine. After all," he set his hand on her bare shoulder in what she assumed was meant to be a fatherly expression, "You have made tremendous progress. I do hope we can put the unpleasant events of our past behind us and face the bright future you have here at Gotham State."

"I do worry about how easy I was, as they say, let off," her eyes turned to Van Dorn, "After all…I was sentenced to two years, Miss Van Dorn. Ten months is a few months shy of such a sentence."

"Oh, Iris…there's no need to be worrying about that." The brunette assured her, "If you made such a recovery in this short time, then why prolong it?"

"Indeed! And we mustn't be worrying about such matters, Iris." Long added, "Next week, you begin your reinstated position as assistant professor of Psychology."

"You'd give me another chance?" she asked, looking shocked and awed at his generosity.

"Certainly. You've been given a clean bill, my dear!" Long said, taking another long sip of his drink.

"Indeed," Van Dorn said, her voice catching slightly, "Iris, I think I could use another drink. Won't you join me?"

"Of course," she replied smoothly, excusing herself from the highly intoxicated doctor and following the district attorney to the refreshment bar.

* * *

"Let's be clear," Van Dorn stated, her voice brisk and cool, just as it had been when Iris was sentenced to Arkham ten months ago. Her eyes looked coolly into Iris'; she only just realized the teenager was nearly as tall as her, if not a bit taller. Shaking the thought aside, she held her own and stared her down as she did all the criminals of Gotham.

"Let's be clear, _Miss_ DeLaine," she repeated coldly, "We are going to get one thing clear, right here and now, alright?" she moved even closer, her eyes boring into Iris' blue ones, "You and I both know the truth. I don't know what you did to get yourself out of Arkham this quickly, and I don't know how you managed to convince the courts to just let you waltz away. But I will not give up so easily, do you understand me?"

"I'm afraid I don't, Miss Van Dorn," she answered, keeping her voice even and quiet. No need to attract unwanted attention at this moment.

"Well then, let me make it clear for you, little girl," she said, not noticing Iris' tension at her cold words, "Let me make this perfectly clear, hm? We both know you belong in Arkham. And I am going to put you back in there…and this time, you're going to stay there."

"Why did you send me there in the first place?" Iris whispered, her voice and eyes matching the other woman's, "What reason did you have to throw me in there without invoking any of my constitutional rights, Janet?" she smirked slightly at the brunette's stiffening, "Do tell me…defending my professor was enough, was it? Or was it the suspicion of Professor Crane and I's alleged relationship? Was that enough? Allow me to answer these questions for you, Janet dear. There _was_ no reason. You broke almost every rule in the book to send me to Arkham. At most, I should have been placed in a juvenile facility, perhaps Black Gate if you'd gotten a judge far enough under your pretty little thumb. But Arkham?" she gave a quiet laugh, "What delusion are you living under, Van Dorn? The only reason you got away with this was because you're the district attorney. And that…is grand scale abuse of power."

She finished her drink and set it down slowly on the counter. The bartender was probably overhearing everything, but at least he had the sense to keep his mouth shut, tight. "If you thought that I don't know why you shipped me off to Arkham, you were gravely mistaken." She leaned very, very close. Her voice was little more than a quiet breath, "And if you're thinking of bringing up the _matter_ of my relationship with my professor again, allow me to give you some sound advice, alright? First, my relationship with Professor Crane is none, I repeat, _none_ of your business. Second…if you do choose to dredge this business up again…you will regret it."

Van Dorn glared at her, "Are you threatening me, young lady?"

"No," she answered quietly, "I'm warning you. Consider it your only warning."

She stepped back, her smooth and sophisticated smile once again in place, "Enjoy your drink, Miss Van Dorn," she placed a bill down on the black countertop, "It's my treat."

* * *

"Oh, that…that…that horrible woman!" Alice fumed, sipping her tea rather forcefully and then slamming it back down on the counter, "How dare she? First this absurd nonsense with Jervis, and now she's turned all her focus back to you—just because of some ridiculous obsession she's got herself wrapped up in? Oh, the nerve!" her hands gripped the cup alarmingly tight.

"Alice, kindly don't take your personal frustrations out on the poor tea set," Iris said. Her back was turned, but she could hear everything perfectly, "Your Grandma Lorina wouldn't appreciate it."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Iris…" Alice apologized, loosening her hold, "It's just…I know she has a job to do, but…"

"She's turned this into a witch hunt, not a job." Iris replied, turning around, "Come on, let's go to the couch and get this over with."

"Iris! It's a delightful movie…" the blonde hurried over with her tea and a movie. Both girls had changed into their respective nightwear—Alice in a pale blue camisole and loose fitting white pants; Iris had donned a black camisole and pair of mini shorts. Cheshire plopped down in Iris' lap the moment she'd crossed her legs, purring quietly and rubbing up against her thighs. Alice, meanwhile, busied herself with placing the DVD in the player, then returned to sit beside Iris on the couch. On the small coffee table was dessert, the ending to their rather excessive dinner party for two. Iris had prepared the treat—a large bowl of cookie dough ice cream complete with chocolate sauce, whipped cream, and two cherries…for each girl. Alice had originally made a comment about the excessive amount of ice cream, but, as Iris had pointed out with a smirk, she was having no trouble digging into the bowl now. Alice held said bowl in her lap, looking eager for the movie to begin. Iris was less than thrilled.

"I'm sure I'll wake up tomorrow and suddenly understand just _why_ I allowed you to talk me into watching this." She commented dryly, running the tip of her tongue over her spoon, catching a few droplets of melting ice cream.

"Oh, Iris, don't be so gloomy! This is going to be fun!" Alice beamed, her eyes glued to the television. The opening credits began to roll, and _The Notebook_ appeared across the screen. Iris balked, nearly choking on her ice cream.

"Oh no…no, no, no, no and absolutely _not_." Iris said, getting up immediately, making a bee-line for the video cabinet, "You didn't tell me you had _this_ planned, Alice. No, we are not watching this!"

"Iris!" she pouted, "It's a romance movie!"

"Not my type,"

"It's heartwarming and enlightening and enriching for the soul!"

"Don't care,"

"Where's your compassion?"

"You want compassion, I'll rent you _Bambi_." Iris said, getting up from the DVD player and settling back on the couch, "In the meantime, I'll give you sappy, nauseating and ridiculously clichéd romance, mental enrichment, and comedy all in one."

Alice looked at her warily, "What are we watching?" she asked meekly.

Iris turned to face her with a perfectly terrifying smile, "You'll see."


	15. A Little Thing Called Family

"_Born within the family and without, our sisters hold up our mirrors: our images of who we are and of who we can dare to be."_

_~ Elizabeth Fishel_

Chapter 15: A Little Thing Called Family

"I am _never_ going swimming again," Alice whispered faintly, trembling where she stood in the grocery aisle, "I can't believe I got you to talk me into watching those…_horrible_ movies, Iris."

"You're right, it was a horrible movie—both of them," Iris said calmly, examining two separate heads of lettuce in her hands, inspecting them for any deformation or brown spots that would make them inedible, "Horribly made, cheap special effects, nonexistent plot, inaccurate blood spatter effects, and let's not forget obnoxious acting. But at least it was better than that sappy nonsense you were going to make me sit through for almost two hours."

Alice pouted, "I don't think I'll ever look at a swimming pool again…"

"Oh, don't be silly," she said, finally making her selection and placing the lettuce in the shopping cart, "It's not the swimming pools you have to watch out for. It's the lakes…you know, you'll be just sitting on the dock…letting your legs dangle over into the water…and then suddenly you'll feel a little tug," two fingers grabbed at the hem of Alice's skirt, "And then…the next thing you know…Big Martha has you!"

"IRIS!" Alice barely managed to stifle her shriek as the younger girl suddenly lunged and wrapped her in a tight, overpowering embrace. Thankfully, there were very, very few people in the store, which meant all the fewer people to hear her outburst, "For god's sake, Iris! Honestly…what are you thinking?" she glowered at the younger girl, who had convulsed into a bout of laughter.

"You should have seen your face, Alice…" she said, taking a few slow breaths to calm herself down a bit, though she was smirking broadly, "My god…that was absolutely priceless. Where's a camera when you need one?"

Alice huffed, brushing her hair back from her face, "Why are we shopping again, anyway?" she asked, following Iris down the vegetable aisle, "We have enough food to last us another week at least."

"Your ability to milk funds to the grand extent of their worth is commendable, Alice," she replied, "And yes, we do have quite enough food to last the two of us. But that's not why we're doing this."

"Then why?"

"You must learn to multitask, dear one, even while you're typing up reports," Iris said sweetly, "I told you yesterday that we were having dinner guests tonight."

"_**Tonight**_?" she all but shrieked once again, "Iris, you know I can't entertain tonight! I-I have reports to type up!"

"You can do them tomorrow,"

"I have to organize files!"

"That'll take you all of five minutes to do."

"And I have a business meeting tonight! Dr. Cates won't let me out of it!"

"She did three hours ago…I'll just pretend you thanked me for making the phone call and getting you out of the meeting."

"You did _**what**_?"

"You heard me," Iris said, now sounding completely bored with the conversation. She strolled away, leaving Alice with the cart while she scanned the selection of tomatoes. Not to be put off so easily—an aspect of her character that had been changed for the better since she moved in with Iris—Alice followed her determinedly.

"Iris, what were you thinking, cancelling me out like that? Now she'll think I'm a slacker, and an indecent employee, and—"

"The most difficult, stubborn, obstreperous, impossibly arrogant, and ridiculously unforgiving employer—which Marsha Cates is, I might add," Iris smirked to herself, knowing full well Alice—in spite of her unrelenting ability to see the good in everyone, no matter how unpleasant they were—couldn't even argue with those facts, "couldn't think you were a slacker or unfit employee, Alice. Not to mention, you have something on your side."

"What?" Alice said, forgetting her anger in light of Iris' words, which (as always) sparked her curiosity.

"You have a roommate," her long arm roped around the blonde's shoulders, bringing her closer, "Who has always been able to pride herself on her way with words…and possessing no manner of reluctance to make a simple dinner party into a dire family emergency."

"What sort of emergency?"

"Let's just say, when she asks about your grandmother's hospitalization on Monday, tell her she's doing great and made a full recovery."

Alice sighed, shaking her head, "How can you stand to lie so easily?"

"Honey, are you serious?" Iris blinked, "I'm a high society girl. Lying is what we do."

"But even then—wait, who's coming to this dinner party?" Alice asked, the thought suddenly coming to her, "Surely not family…" she privately shuddered at the thought of her mother attending a dinner where Iris would be present. She knew Mother already disapproved of her roommate as it was.

"Absolutely not," Iris replied, "You think I would ever allow that old goat in my house—oh, don't give me that look." She added in response to Alice's scandalized expression, "The things you call her aren't much better, and you know it."

"You'd never tell her what I've said, would you?" Alice went pale at the thought.

"Alice, I'm insulted." Iris said, though she didn't sound very upset. In fact, she looked downright calm as she moved towards a grocer unpacking new fruits, "Excuse me, where do you store the roast?"

"Iris!" the blonde hustled towards her, taking two steps for every one that Iris took, "Iris, who are we having over tonight?"

"I was going to tell you, Alice," she answered, "But you had to divert the conversation…"

"Iris!"

"Alright, alright…" Iris said, holding up one hand in surrender, "We're having some family friends over tonight—Dr. Charles Golden and his brother, Franklin."

"Is his brother a doctor too?"

"No," Iris answered, perusing the frozen meats.

"Then what does he do?"

"You can ask him tonight."

"Why are they coming—?"

"Alice!" Iris finally said, exasperated, "You know I love you, and all your questions will be answered soon enough. I promise I'm not holding anything back from you. But right now, I have less than six hours to prepare a meal for two men who love, and I mean _love_, to eat…not to mention we have to feed the two of us. Now, be a love and go see what sort of delicacies they have in the deli."

"And we can check olives off the list," Alice said, now in a much better mood since she was charged with the duty of collecting items for the dinner, "Black and green, as requested." She paused, and then looked up at Iris, "I thought you hated olives."

"I do," Iris answered, "With a passion, I might add. But Charles and Franklin love them. Franklin would marry an olive if he could." She added with a wink. Alice giggled and perused the list in her hand.

* * *

"Alright…we've got all the frozen foods," she continued, nibbling on the end of her pen thoughtfully. It was an old habit from her school girl days; a dreadful one, according to her mother, but she'd seen Iris do the same thing, so she supposed that as long as she was doing it in good company, no harm could come of it, "And now…it looks like we need rolls, and then we'll be done."

"Excellent," Iris said, steering the cart towards the bakery, "I'm thinking sesame for Franklin, and then honey-glaze for the rest of us. You like?"

"You know me too well…" Alice giggled again, "And then…" her eyes fell to the nearly overflowing cart in front of them.

"And then," Iris finished for her, "We start cooking."

_

* * *

_

_Five hours, thirty-eight minutes, forty-five seconds later…_

"And…just how did this happen again…?" Iris asked, her voice strained from the effort to not burst into hysterical laughter.

Alice, on the other hand, was looking less than amused, "All I did was put the mixer in!' she protested, looking down at her flour-covered clothes and hands.

"And that," Iris said, pulling herself together and walking towards the kitchen counter, "Is why you add _water_ first, Alice."

"Oh lord…" she groaned, starting to run her hands through her hair, then stopping and moving towards the sink to wash, "Have I ruined it, Iris?"

"You might have, if the mix hadn't exploded on you," Iris said, smirking near shamelessly now, "Fill this up, will you?" she handed over the measuring cup. When the filled cup was back in her hands, she poured it back into the bowl, continuing to talk calmly, "But despite your little accident, it seems all will work out quite well. So you see, Alice, there is a silver lining to everything."

"Indeed…" Alice sighed, looking at her clothes, "Oh, I'm a mess…"

"That's also why you don't wear your dinner clothes when cooking." The dark-haired girl added, "Surely all your years of entertaining have taught you that much."

Alice rolled her eyes, drying off her washed (and now clean) hands and making a mental note to not touch her clothing until she was changed, "Alright…well, I think we've accomplished everything, haven't we?"

"Let's see," Iris reached over, taking a look at the list tacked up on the refrigerator. And that was yet another reason why Iris and Alice made such wonderful roommates—they were both organized, "neat-niks" (as Edward Nygma would have called it), and very list-oriented. Everything involved a list, no matter how seemingly insignificant. Particularly when concocting a variety of dishes for a dinner party, lists had to be involved.

"Looks like once we finish up the pineapple upside down cake, we're done," Iris said, smiling rather pleasantly at the blonde, "Why don't you go and get dressed? I can finish up the cake."

"Thanks, Iris," Alice smiled, "Oh bother…what am I supposed to do with these…?"

"Just toss them down in the basement," Iris said, indicating with a light hand gesture to the door, "And you can strip here."

"Iris!"

"Your modesty is shameless in its own right, Alice…just take off your clothes here and throw them down into the basement, alright?" Iris rolled her eyes slightly, "I promise I won't look if that makes you feel better."

Alice chewed her bottom lip, then sighed and stripped down slowly, "What is it about you that makes me act like such a child at times, Iris?"

"Talent…and more experience."

"Who is the older one here?"

"You, when you act like it." Iris winked, "Now, get dressed before the good doctor shows up and decides he wants to get you for a physical."

* * *

Alice pressed one of the lilac colored, terrycloth towels to her face, drying it off after a quick wash to rid herself of the dried flour specks that had glued themselves to her cheeks. After she was satisfied with her cleaning job, she carefully ran her hand through her recently curled hair, examining her job with a curling iron. It was, after all, only her second or perhaps third time with such a tool. But it looked like she had done a fairly decent job this time, which was more than could be said for her first attempt.

Deciding to let her curls fall as they may down her back, Alice then turned her attention to her makeup. After taking a lesson from Iris a few months ago (seeing as she was the daughter of a world-famous model), she had learned to "apply her face" in a very different way than her mother had ever taught her. She first applied a pale blue shadow over her eyelids; it was one of those shades that was pale enough to almost not be noticed, but gave the eyes enough color to make them stand out. Of course, according to Iris, her eyes were her sharpest, most exquisite feature, so it was of absolute importance that she made them "pop" as much as possible. Feeling like being a little "exotic", Alice added a touch of glitter around the corners of her eyes. Finally, a touch of mascara, and then she applied some bright pink lip gloss.

She leaned back, examining her reflection for a moment before standing and going to the closet. It didn't take her long to select an outfit appropriate for the evening; she had very few items that weren't full-length evening gowns. As much as she was dreading the thought, she knew she was going to have to go and ask Iris to take her shopping.

Five minutes later, she was downstairs again, dressed in a black accordion-style skirt, a silk blue top, and black heeled sandals. Iris was just placing the cake in the oven when the blonde rounded the corner; hearing the approaching footsteps, the dark-haired girl straightened up, dusting off her hands.

"Well, well, well…" Iris examined her carefully, then smiled approvingly, "About time you wore that top, Alice…and to think, you complained about how it showed too much skin."

Alice smiled, twirling slightly in place for Iris' amusement, "I think it worked out after all…" she shrugged. Her eyes traveled up to the clock, "Oh my…they'll be here soon, Iris. You better go get ready."

"Sounds good," Iris said, "Behave while I'm gone."

* * *

"Iris DeLaine, really!" Franklin Golden blinked in embarrassment upon seeing Iris' clothes, "Wherever is your sense of propriety?"

"Oh come now, Franklin," she smiled, wrapping her arms around him in a hug, "I have to do something to keep you boys' heart rates up. It's good for the soul, you know."

"But not for my blood pressure, I assure you." He answered, giving her a pat to the back, "That's why this one's a doctor…" he nodded to his brother, stepping aside to let Iris share an embrace with Charles. Both the Golden brothers were quite alike, nearly identical in fact, in both appearance and demeanor. They were of average height, with Charles being the taller of the two, with a full head of fluffy white hair and facial hair—Charles with a full grown beard and Franklin with a neat little mustache. Both were a bit on the larger end of the weight scale, though Charles seemed to be a bit leaner, as his job kept him bustling about the hospital. For the evening, Franklin was dressed in his Sunday best: a dark green suit jacket and pants, with an off-white buttoned shirt and a bright blue bowtie tied beneath his chin. Charles always reminded Iris (and now Alice as well) of a well dressed Englishman, nearly out of a Sherlock Holmes novel, wearing a sharp blue suit with, like his brother, a white shirt, though he had selected to leave the tie at home tonight. Over it all he wore a neat little frock coat, the tails of which nearly brushed the floor; a blue bowler hat was set upon his white hair. Both the coat and hat were removed by Iris' quick and gracious hand, then hung on the coat rack beside the door.

"Alice, why don't you show the boys to the dining room, and we can eat. I'm sure they're both ravenous," at the blonde's nod, Iris left to collect glasses and the wine from the kitchen. When she entered the dining area, balancing four glasses in one hand and the wine in the other, Franklin raised his hands in applause.

"Quite the talented one, m'dear." He praised, accepting his glass from her long fingers.

"Oh, nonsense." Iris said airily, "Alice is far more talented than I. She's been entertaining far longer than I, in fact."

"That's what happens when you're five years older," Alice said with a playful smile, "More experience."

"And better looks," Iris added with a wink that had the blonde blushing and beaming, "Oh, and I do believe I played the ungracious host and didn't remember my manners. Alice, this is Dr. Charles Golden and his brother Franklin. Gentlemen, Alice Pleasance…she's been my roommate for the last year."

"Charmed, charmed," Franklin stood and shook her hand warmly, "I trust you two met at the university."

"Well—" Alice began, only to be cut off by Iris.

"Yes," she said calmly, "We met in Psychology 101…Alice was a student of mine when I was the Teaching Assistant."

"I see…so you must have had Professor Crane as a teacher then." Franklin asked with a curious brow. Alice tilted her eyes slightly, as though asking Iris permission to divulge such information, but the dark-haired girl was busy filling wine glasses. Taking that to be a sign that Iris wouldn't mind if she answered, she nodded. "Yes, I did…both he and Iris actually made the subject quite intriguing for me. Though I can't say I'd consider a career in it, like Iris is. I think I'm made more for secretarial work."

"And she does a bloody good job of it," Iris said, skipping over her own wine glass and filling Alice's instead, "Don't let her modesty make you think otherwise, boys."

Alice blushed while Franklin chuckled, "Now, now, Iris…mustn't take modesty for granted…not in this world."

"Thank you, Mr. Golden," Alice said graciously, sitting down after thanking Iris for the wine, "What do you do for your job?"

"Well, Father always wanted a son, and he wanted him to become a doctor, but also to keep the family business running. Instead, he ended up with two sons, one of whom went on to be a doctor," he nodded at Charles, "And the other took over the family antique store."

Alice perked up, "Antiques? Oh, I love looking at antiques! Where is your store?"

"Not too far from the university, in fact. It's in that small little town near the campus…not too hard to find, especially now that we've met." He smiled with a wink, "It's called _Golden's Antiques_. Father wasn't terribly inventive."

"I'd love to see it. Perhaps I'll come by next time I have time off." Alice said happily.

"I'd be delighted." Franklin then turned and nudged his brother, "Oh, come now, Charles, be social for once in your life!"

"It's all the time I spend with her," he said, nodding to Iris, "Her behavior is wearing off on me."

"You'd better hope not…" she smirked rather suggestively.

Charles scoffed, though he was smiling, then reached out to take Alice's hand. As he shook it, his eyes suddenly trained very intently on her face, "A pleasure…" he said quietly, peering at her closely. Alice squirmed slightly.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, mildly embarrassed.

"No, I do beg your pardon." He said with a slight inclination of the head, "It's your eyes, Miss Pleasance."

"What about them?"

He looked back at Iris, "The shade is exactly the same. You two have the same eye color…precisely."

Alice blinked, "R-really? I've never noticed that…coincidence, I suppose."

"Most likely," Charles said, though he didn't seem convinced. Alice squirmed slightly, looking to say something else that might convince the doctor the similarities were little more than, in fact, coincidences. However, she didn't have the time, as his attention turned to Iris.

"I beg your pardon again, Miss Pleasance. Iris, my dear, it just occurred to me that I left something in my car…would you mind coming out and helping me with it?"

"Of course," she said, casually side-stepping around the table to follow him in the foyer.

* * *

But, as it turned out, there was nothing he had left in the car, just as Iris had suspected from the hesitant tone in his voice. Charles slowly turned to face her once they had entered the front hallway, fixing her with a look that was soft and understanding, but professional all the same.

"There were _other_ ways to get a blood sample to me, you know." He said, perking an eyebrow ever so slightly, "But I suppose you get your flare for the dramatic from that…_mother_," he looked ill at the word, "of yours. That aside," he fixed her with a stern expression (he had assumed this expression many times over the years), "I have been meaning to say this to you for a while though, young lady: injuring yourself was quite unnecessary. Even if I didn't have enough nonsense to deal with from my other patients, now I have you slicing up your skin—as though you didn't have enough scars to deal with—just to get me over there, all because you signed me on as your temporary guardian. I mean, _really_, Iris…there were _**other ways**_."

"I had to keep them thinking I was mad as a Hatter, Charles," she said quietly, "Besides…I just wanted to see you again." She added with an innocent droop of the lip and eyelids. He didn't buy it.

"Indeed," he snorted, "And just how did you know that I would find a match to your young friend in a database?"

"Because Alice is a saint," she answered quietly, "She donates blood every month. And after that recent…_scandal_…"

"They've started keeping records, instead of allowing it to be anonymous like the old days," he sighed, shaking his head. He then paused and looked at her. This time, his look was far less professional and scolding, more so of the kind and sympathetic expression that had sparked a desire in Iris, when she was much younger, that _he_ was her father.

"You had noticed before, hadn't you, Iris? And you were far too rational and logical to pass it off as mere coincidence." He cleared his throat, reaching slowly into his coat pocket and retrieving a piece of folded paper, "I assume, then…there was only one test you were wanting me to run, between your blood and Miss Pleasance's?"

Iris didn't answer, and he didn't require one. He nodded slowly, "Iris…do you really want to know the answer to this puzzle? There are some doors in this world that do not need to be pried open…especially when you have already endured several painful revelations."

"I would not have brought you that sample, Charles," she said quietly, "if I did not want to know this answer." Her eyes fell down to the paper, "The results?" her voice lowered to nearly a quivering whisper.

Charles nodded, "Very well, Iris…as you wish." He handed her the paper.

Iris felt an inperceptible quiver shake along the backs of her hands, almost an electrical shock as she took the paper. She held it closed for several moments, unwilling to open it before she felt completely ready. This revelation could make or break the dream she'd been chasing for years...would shape the rest of her relationship with Alice in unchangeable ways, no matter what the paper said. It would be the difference between a friendship or a relation...a life with a family member or a life as a virtual orphan. It would change not only her own childhood, but perhaps another childhood as well.

The dark haired woman let out a deep sigh and opened the piece of paper.

Iris nodded slowly. There was nothing to be said to him, not even for herself. The answer was plain as daylight on the paper…and that was all both needed to know. Slowly, her legs caved, and she stumbled ungracefully into the wall. Charles was at her side in an instant, catching her gently and guiding her to ensure her descent to the floor was anything but painful. He squatted beside her, setting a comforting hand to her shoulder as she stared blankly at the paper.

"Iris?" he finally asked after five minutes had passed in silence. Receiving no response, he gently waved his hand in front of her eyes, "Iris? Iris, my dear, please don't tell me I've snapped your mind."

"It would take more than this to do that, Charles…although this does come close." She managed a small smile for him, "I can't believe it…and yet, I'm not completely surprised."

She swallowed hard, nearly painfully so, "And you're completely certain about the results?"

"I ran the test three times _personally_, Iris…" he sighed again, shaking his head slowly, "I couldn't believe it myself when I saw the results—though all the same, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. For all we know, you might have more out there in the world."

Her eyes once again went down to the single word that brought her entire world up on its head, printed in all capital letters, bold black print against white paper:

**Blood Match: POSITIVE**

* * *

Alice heard Iris' impact with the wall and was out in the foyer in a moment, "Iris? Are you all right?"

Their matched blue eyes locked and Iris began to laugh. Tears ran down her face as she shrieked with laughter, half of it hysteria and half of it sheer delight.

Alice knelt down beside her. "Iris, what's wrong?"

The dark woman shoved the paper into Alice's hands. The blonde read it, brows knit in a furrow of confusion. "What...but I don't understand...?"

"We get half of our alleles from our mother, and half from our father, Miss Pleasance," Charles stood up to explain, assuming the charisma of a doctor once again, "You and Iris…your DNA samples have seven alleles in common."

"We share blood, Alice...genetics. And eye color," Iris whispered, putting a hand on the blonde's shoulder. Tears welled up in Alice's eyes as she slowly began to understand. How and why Dr. Golden had found the means to run her blood against Iris' didn't matter anymore, not in the slightest. Seven alleles in common…half of their genes identical…which meant they had to share a relative—a close relative like a…

_Father_.

"Oh my God...oh, God. Iris...we're not..." She looked down at the paper again. "You mean...oh my God. He only told me once...I thought it was a lie, years later...or that she died...Iris! Iris!" Alice threw her arms around the other woman, holding her tight. "You're my little sister! Oh my God! I've been waiting years to find you! Iris!"


	16. How Fast Can You Tread Deep Water

"_A man's true secrets are more secret to himself than they are to others."_

Chapter 16: How Fast Can You Tread Deep Water?

The rest of the evening was a bit of a blur. Alice seemed to recall having an enjoyable meal with the Golden brothers, and that they had left around ten o'clock that night—and she'd promised Franklin again that she would stop by and visit his shop. Oh, and they had gotten a phone call during the shrimp cocktail appetizer that Iris had prepared—a phone call from none other than Dr. Long, informing Iris that he needed her answer on his offer of making her Psychology professor…and he needed it by tomorrow, Friday.

But for her, none of that mattered. Especially not Dr. Long…Iris didn't want that job anymore, not with Professor Crane gone. Perhaps she would open a private practice once she'd graduated.

All these thoughts faded ever so pleasantly from Alice's mind as she brought herself back to (for once) blissful reality. The smell of pine was the first thing she noticed as she awoke, then felt the soft silk of bed coverings beneath her fingertips. Her eyes opened to see what seemed to be an endless plain of black silk…Iris' bed. That's right…she had fallen asleep on Iris' bed last night. She wasn't quite sure about what had happened between the time that their dinner guests had left and this morning, though she seemed to remember washing up the dishes and taking a shower.

She sat upright, taking a glance down at herself and seeing that she had donned pajamas that Iris had helped her pick out months ago, before they were ever roommates. It was, most assuredly, scandalous in the eyes of her mother, but Alice was quite fond of the dark blue nightgown. It was a simple piece with thin straps and a knee-length hem, made of soft silk that kept her surprisingly warm on cool nights. Her lips turned up in a small smile as she remembered buying the outfit, then three days later, Iris had surprised her with a white, knitted wrap for her to use with the dress on cooler nights.

"Taking a stroll down memory lane?"

Iris' voice, soft and unusually sweet, brought her attention to the left, where she saw the younger girl lying on her stomach, propped up by her elbows. The blonde's brows rose ever so slightly in amusement, "You slept with clothes on last night?"

A shrug, "It was a struggle, but alas," she said with a dramatic gesture, "I survived."

"I'm sure it was quite the trial for you," Alice said, flopping down on her back, head nearly level with her sister's.

Her sister…her little sister…it seemed hardly possible.

She remembered her father speaking of another sibling, once upon a time it seemed now, but she had thought little of it. Her mother had forbade her from ever mentioning it again, most likely because she knew Alice was the illegitimate child—to Alice's personal knowledge, her parents had never been married. Oh, she was recognized as his child at times, but it was Iris DeLaine who the media heralded as the heir to DeLaine Towers. Her mother had been positively livid when Father had told her Alice wouldn't be eligible to inherit the family company, but Alice had no interest in it. She was a secretary, not the CEO of one of the world's most powerful, multi-billion corporations. She had originally presumed it would be hell trying to get Iris to take over the company, but the younger girl seemed to show mild interest in it, though Alice still had her suspicions that she wasn't doing it for herself. All the same, she was left to her imagination—Iris never discussed family business. And even now that family business included Alice, she knew Iris still wouldn't be keen to talk about it.

"How long have you been awake?" Alice asked , turning her head slightly to better see Iris' face.

"About an hour," she answered. Though her voice was calm and collected, there was a definite tightness to her features that flipped Alice's protective switch.

"Dr. Long called again, didn't he?" she whispered, sitting upright again, "About the job?"

"Yes," she answered coolly, "It seems that even in all his renowned years of education, Dr. Long hasn't quite grasped the idea that working towards your Doctrine is enough trouble, let alone adding on the responsibilities of being an assistant professor. But I dealt with it…for two years, almost, in fact. But for God's sake…" she sighed, running a hand through her hair—always a sign of agitation, "I complete the program in three days…does he honestly think I have the time to be thinking about a full-time position as a professor?"

Alice frowned sympathetically, "Come on, Iris…cheer up! You're graduating, remember? Graduating with your Doctrine! Now the sky's really the limit for you! You can finally introduce yourself as _Doctor_ DeLaine!"

Iris finally let a smile show on her face, one of those soft smiles that was so rarely seen on her lips that it sent Alice's heart soaring at the mere sight, "You're right…" she said softly, "You're absolutely right…come on." She pushed herself up and off the bed, "You've got a class at noon, and no, you're not missing it. Come on, get dressed."

"Oh, alright…" Alice was in absolutely no mood to attend class today, but she only had the noon lecture, then one at 1:30, and then she was off work (for once), so she and Iris could spend the rest of the day together.

"Alice, hurry up." Iris called from the bathroom, "It's 11 o'clock, and you're still in your pajamas!"

* * *

"Oh!" Alice burst out, forcing her mind to focus on her getting out of the car _and_ talk at the same time—it was proving to be a far more difficult task than usual, "Iris, I almost forgot!" her hand fumbled around in her backpack for a moment, and then she pulled out a small disk, "You need this—your dissertation is on it!"

"Oh, there it is…" Iris said, taking it from her quickly, "I was wondering where that went…did it help you with your presentation?"

"Yes!" she beamed, "Very much so, in fact! Thank you, Iris. Do you have your report folder?"

She patted her bag in response, "Hurry now! You'll be late." Iris ushered her sister off to class, watching her run in heeled sandals with a small smile and light shake of the head. Once Alice was safely within the lecture hall, the dark-haired girl turned and made her way towards the library. She privately winced at the bill she was going to rack up for herself with the library printer.

* * *

"This is quite the extensive project, Miss DeLaine," Dr. Long said, leafing through the thick report she'd just placed on his desk, "How long were you working on this before your…departure?"

She bit her tongue to keep from commenting on his choice of words, "Nearly three years, Dr. Long. These aren't items to be taking lightly…and not something that has only mere paragraphs written on the subject."

"Indeed…" he nodded, closing the top cover and fixing her with his serious look that made her want to (seriously) injure something, "Well, it appears all is in order, Miss DeLaine. With one exception, that is…"

"You want my answer on the position you offered me," she said quietly, folding her hands in her lap rather tightly.

"Yes, I do." He said, "You have great potential here, Miss DeLaine…a bright new future with a career that could put you in the spotlight of Psychology!"

"I have spent far too many years being in the spotlight, Dr. Long," she answered, her voice carrying a brittle edge, "I have no wish to spend the rest of my life in the kind of spotlight you're referring to."

"DeLaine, your choices remain this—take the position, or inherit your father's company. Either way, you will always be in the spotlight."

"I'm aware of that." She answered, "However, my inheritance is the spotlight I am accustomed to. I despise it greatly, and I wish there were an alternative, but seeing as there is none, I will take that course. You should have considered my _bright future_ at Gotham State before you had me shipped off to Arkham."

"You and I both know you don't want your father's company!" he said, losing his cool entirely with her words.

"No, I don't, as I stated." She admitted, standing slowly, "And if it were not for personal matters at hand, I would not be taking it over at all, not even considering it, in fact. However…certain things have come to light, and they need to be tended to."

"DeLaine—"

"You have my answer, Dr. Long." she said quietly, "I will not be accepting the position. Give it to someone who wants it. Right now…I have someone to look after."

"Who?" he demanded; his sharp voice and blunt question brought her to a halt right before she exited his office.

With a quiet sigh, she turned back to face him, eyes steady and voice cold. "My grandfather is not as young as he once was, Dr. Long. If it's all the same to you, I'd like to spend what remaining time I have left with him…as a family."

* * *

Iris found herself sitting on one of the many benches dotted about the campus, her eyes facing a rather handsome oak tree, located about six feet away from her. She knew this tree well—it was the site of many late night rendezvous between the students. During such times, one could hardly appreciate the wonder of the tree when you saw two individuals crawling all over each other. But now, in the middle of the day, students were at class (most of them), and the tree was free to be admired and examined with an appreciative eye. It had been there for many, many years…probably one of the few trees that weren't chopped up when the University was built. During the autumn months, like right now in late October, the leaves were a lovely array of color—purple, a mix of crimson and magenta, and of course, gold. It was times like this that Iris grew to appreciate Pamela's adoration of Nature.

She suddenly realized she'd forgotten something. In the excitement of the last few days, time had become a blur, and last night might as well have been nonexistent after she read the results from the DNA comparison. Of course, Arnold had mentioned it while she was still at Arkham, but then she had dealt with the competency hearing, and the farewell party, and then the party at the university with that second-rate district attorney—she bristled at the memory. If she had her way, she'd have Harvey reinstated, Two-Face or not.

A wry smile turned up the corners of her lips. Two-Face wouldn't make such a bad district attorney, and with his method of prosecution and exacting justice…well, the cases would go much faster.

She shook her head slightly. There she was, going off on those thought tangents of hers again…an old habit from childhood. When there was little more to be done than "be seen but not heard", the mind of a child was prone to wander, and wander it did. She supposed she would never be rid of the habit, but at least it kept her from boredom.

Today was her birthday…her eyes fell down to her watch. In approximately five hours and thirty minutes, she would have been born seventeen years ago.

So this was what it felt like to be seventeen. She couldn't tell a difference.

"Iris!"

Her eyes turned to the left, a smile on her face as she lifted her hand in greeting. Alice was running towards her, blonde hair tussling about in the wind. Finally, she threw her hands out to halt her pace, and to avoid crashing into the back of the bench. Panting slightly, she finally slumped down into the vacant space besides Iris.

"Oh, laugh it up…" she commented, wiping some hair from her eyes and ignoring Iris' smirk.

"You'd think you'd been running for your life, Alice…" she said, stretching her arms above her head slowly, "Where's the fire?"

"There was no fire." Alice answered, her breathing finally coming under control, "It was worse."

Amusement faded from Iris' face, replaced with a rather unpleasant look, "Did a little lizard creep up your arm again, Alice?"

The blonde could hardly believe there was once a time when she would have rebuked Iris when she called Billy a lizard. Right now, she couldn't think a more appropriate title for him, "Yes…yes, he did. And he certainly _crept_…" she sighed, rubbing her temples slowly—always a sign of agitation, "Iris…can I ask you something?"

"Not here," Iris said, standing up and bringing the blonde with her, "The air around here has ears…and a jaw that is all too easily unhinged. Come on…we're both done for the day, Alice. Let's get out of here and not worry about anything else, hm? After all…it _is_ the weekend."

Alice gave a tiny smile, "You're right…where are we going?"

"Shopping,"

The smile was gone, replaced by a look of anticipation, "Oh…Iris, that really isn't necessary…I've got plenty of clothes…"

"I didn't say we were going to buy anything. But we could both use a stretch, no?"

"Oh…" a wave of relief passed over her, etched into her face, "Then yes…that sounds wonderful! The mall then?"

"Oh…I was thinking of a different kind of shopping first…" Iris murmured, nodding her head towards the east. Alice blinked, then a broad smile split her face.

"The antique shop!"

* * *

"Do my old eyes deceive me?" Franklin beamed, crossing from behind the counter to approach the two girls, "First a delightful dinner, and now you come to my humble little shop? You two spoil an old man…"

Iris smiled, accepting and returning the hug he gave her, "I have time to make up for, after all. This is what happens when I'm gone for ten months."

"Well, I'm flattered." He said, sounding delighted, "Please…look around. It's been quiet today, so no need to worry about other customers or the like. Discounts on everything!" he added with a chuckle.

Alice felt her head spin just from looking around. From the outside, the shop looked quite small; inside, it seemed to never end. It was a neat and organized place, with furniture located at the furthermost end of the shop, clothing in front, and what looked like miscellaneous items tucked away in a far corner. The walls were painted a warm shade of ivory, reflecting a golden glow from the overhead chandeliers, which looked to be antiques as well. The aroma of fresh pine and polish lingered throughout the store.

It was heaven.

"Discounts on _everything_?" she repeated, her eyes wide and shining.

"Don't tell her that, Franklin," Iris said with a playful smile, "You'll have no merchandise left by the time she's done."

"Well, that's good!" he said, rubbing his hands together, "I've been getting no business for weeks; it's about time someone came in and had use for my store."

"Oh, Iris! Iris, Iris, come here!"

"What is it, Alice?" she asked, both her and Franklin walking over to the clothing section, where they found Alice immersed in the formal attire. Franklin beamed as he moved over and examined what Alice had found.

"Ah yes…bought that from a college acquaintance back in '78. Your sister has fine taste, Iris…"

"I assume this is for you, whatever you're looking at?" Iris asked, raising a brow ever so slightly.

"Don't be ridiculous, Iris! It's for you!" Alice beamed, pulling it out with a flourish, "Look!"

It was quite the elegant piece, made of silk, colored deep sapphire. The sleeves were clearly its prized feature: looping low on the upper arms, then splitting into two sashes that floated away to bare the arm and then tie back together on the wrists. The bodice was simple, with a low V dip, and then clung to the torso until reaching the hips, where it fell loosely down to the ground and pooled with casual elegance.

Iris looked over at Alice. The blonde's expression was positively pathetic.

And it did the job.

"Alright, Franklin…" she sighed in resignation, "Put this on hold for us. And there'll be much more to follow, I'm sure. We'll be here a while."

* * *

"I cannot believe you wanted to buy a _crib_!"

"Iris…" Alice threw her the best pout she could, in spite of her gleeful expression, "It was so perfect! Can't you see your child being rocked to sleep—"

"_Your_ child, maybe." Iris answered, opening the trunk to her car and neatly laying the purchases inside.

"Mine? Don't be ridiculous, Iris. That cradle had your name written all over it!" Alice insisted, plopping down in the car.

Iris swallowed hard. She sincerely wished that it was a longer ride back to their townhouse than the five minute trip it was going to be, but of course, one of the reasons they had bought that particular house was for its convenient location near the college campus. She would simply have to endure this, and hopefully her silence would educate Alice into letting the matter drop.

Unfortunately, that plan backfired miserably. When they pulled into the driveway, unloaded the trunk, brought the clothes inside, placed them downstairs for laundry, and finally went back up to her room for a shower, Iris had endured listening to Alice think up names for a prospective child, what sort of gender Iris would hope for in a child, and, last but not least, where the best place in Gotham to raise a child would be.

Finally, she cracked. Literally.

"Alice, stop!" she said, the sharp bite of her outburst cutting the blonde off in mid-sentence, "Just…just stop, alright? I'm going to take a shower, so would you just _leave me alone_?"

"Iris…" the blonde sounded more confused than hurt, though it was evident she was upset, "I don't understand. Why is this bothering you so much?"

Iris yanked the dressing curtain around, almost too violently; Alice heard the curtain rings screech in protest, "I said, _drop it_."

"NO!" Alice burst out, surprising even herself with her voice, "No, I won't, Iris! Don't you understand? I'm your sister and it's my job to help you!"

"I didn't ask for your help." She whispered quietly, voice trembling with the effort to remain somewhat calm.

"Let me try!"

"You'll try, and then you'll get tired of it, just like everyone else!" Iris snapped, throwing the curtain back again, this time in her silk bath robe and wearing a furious glare.

"I'm _not_ everyone else in this world, Iris! Give me a chance!"

Iris paused, breathing heavily and slowly. Her hands were shaking madly…Alice had never seen her this way. She was normally so calm and reserved—cold and emotionless even. To see her losing her control over emotions completely…what had she said?

"Please, Alice…" the blonde had never heard her say that word before, not once, "Please, I am asking you…_do not_ tread deep water."

Alice swallowed hard. She knew that Iris had secrets and secrets, buried so far down inside her heart and soul that she probably didn't even know herself how many were inside at this rate. But Iris needed help. And if the doctors at Arkham couldn't—wouldn't—help her…maybe someone else would help her.

"I'm not as good as you, Iris…" she whispered, her heart pounding violently. She could swear it would jump out of her chest, "But I'm still a decent swimmer. And deep water doesn't frighten me anymore."

What she thought might have seemed "water off a duck's back" to Iris seemed to break her defenses entirely. She heard her younger sister take a low breath, then her hands rose from her sides and moved around to her front. A quiet rustle, and then her robe parted. Her angular shoulders moved slowly, shrugging the robe down to pool at her feet. Alice could see white scars scattered across her back, even down to the back of her thighs. But before she could ask, Iris had turned around.

Alice thought she was going to throw up.

Where Iris' breasts might have been full and complete, like Alice's, they were small, bordering on being non-existent. But this was not a lack of growth that came from Nature. Across and around her chest were jagged scars, ones that were layered over and over and over again. It was as though…

"My mother did this to me, with a butcher knife…when I was five." Iris whispered, her voice shaking, "She repeated it, on the same date—like it was some anniversary—for the next two years. She told me I would never be worthy of being as much of a woman as she was."

"Iris…" Alice began, only to stop herself as Iris slowly continued.

"That wasn't the only thing she did, Alice…" the dark-haired girl's voice was nearly a whimper now. She slowly sat down on the tiled edge of the bathtub, spreading her legs with reddening eyes. Seconds later, Alice understood why she was about to cry. She was about to cry herself. Her voice wouldn't work…her mind reeled, as did her stomach. But she wouldn't let herself retch. She absolutely refused to let herself show weakness, not when Iris was giving her this kind of weakness…she would never see it again.

"The scars don't stop there," she whispered, voice catching, "They go deeper…much, much, much deeper, Alice."

She wanted to ask how, but that question suddenly didn't seem important. Another question came to her mind instead.

"Why are you showing me this?"

"To explain why all this talk about pregnancy…starting a family…why it bothers me so much…" she closed her legs slowly, wrapping her arms tight around her body, "I can't have children, Alice. Between the scars to my…" she couldn't make herself say the word, "And my body type…I could conceive easily. But giving birth…it's impossible. Either the baby would die…or I would."

And then it happened.

Alice could hardly believe her eyes.

Iris had dropped to her knees, face buried in her hands, sobbing hysterically. Alice couldn't believe it anymore than Iris seemed capable of stopping her tears. It was the most miserable, heartbreaking thing she'd ever seen in her life.

Alice came closer, closer, closer…and then she finally dropped down and wrapped her arms around Iris. Her small, delicate arms brought Iris closer to her, cradling her gently, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

"I'm here, Iris…I'm here…"

Outside, it began to rain. It was as though Nature was weeping with the sisters.


	17. Take the Scroll and Step into the Role

"_A graduation ceremony is an event where the commencement speaker tells thousands of students dressed in identical caps and gowns that __**individuality**__ is the key to success."_

_~ Robert Orben_

Chapter 17: Take the Scroll and Step into the Role

"Iris, hold still…" Alice murmured, though her eyes were anything but scolding, "You know I can't do a thing with your hair if you keep squirming like that."

"I know…" Iris said, "Though frankly, since I'm going to be sitting in an auditorium that's hot as Hades for three hours, I don't suppose it really matters what my hair looks like."

"Let's just pretend it does," the blonde answered, pulling a few loose strands of hair back from Iris' face, carefully bringing them into the clip she held in one hand, then fastening the clip firmly at the base of Iris' skull. She stepped back to admire and examine the look of the black curls drawn back partially, held by the clip, and then set free to fall down her back. The low, swooping V of Iris' dark blue dress framed the cascade of curls quite nicely; the dark colors contrasted neatly with the pale of her skin.

"Alright…" she murmured, standing back a bit more to allow Iris to stand up properly, "I think you're ready." A smile curved her lips, "And you look so beautiful, Iris…I can't believe the day is here!"

The dark-haired girl shook her head, "I swear, Alice, you get more excited about the tiniest things than any person I know." she rubbed her head with a pair of fingers, thinking hard for a moment.

A pause followed before Alice spoke again. "Iris?"

"Hmm?" the hesitant and quiet tone of her sister's voice caught Iris' attention. Even with her own thoughts—a muddle and mess as they were—she wasn't one to ignore Alice when she was clearly thinking abut something, "What is it, Alice?"

She shook her head, composing her face into a smile, "Nothing…I was just thinking about you…I can't believe it. My little sister is graduating…with a higher degree than I could ever hope to have."

"Nonsense," Iris said, finally standing up to face her, "You're perfectly capable of earning as many degrees as you want, Alice…it's all mind over matter. If you think you might can, then you will."

The blonde caught her lower lip in her teeth, chewing slightly, "You think so?"

"No, I know so." She said calmly, dabbing gloss over her lips, "And as you know," she added with a sly smile, "I'm _always_ right."

Alice rolled her eyes, though she looked much happier now, "Yes, you always are." She smiled, "Come on then…let's go before you're late."

* * *

The auditorium was bustling with excitement, quiet whispers mingled with loud outbursts of enthusiasm. For another person, the bustle around her might have distracted Alice as she was trying to read the program, but for all her years of being a secretary, she had become quite adept at tuning loud (particularly obnoxious) noises out.

She and Iris had arrived nearly half and hour early at the ceremony; Iris had gone off down into the lower level to congregate with the other faculty members, while Alice found a lovely seat in the center seats, rather close to the stage. She had wanted an aisle seat, where she could be able to see Iris and perhaps give some words of comfort, but she opted to sit in front of the stage instead. After all, Iris was scheduled to present the closing speech tonight—something that had been announced last minute right  
after her release. From her seat here, Alice could watch her little sister speak with little to no visual distractions.

The music, broadcasted over the surrounding sound system (a little louder than needed, in Alice's opinion), began to play, supplied from the orchestra in the far back. The tune reminded the blonde of music she'd once heard during the overture of an opera. She could see a faint trickle of light from the doors, far behind her, and knew the graduates were coming in, preceded by the faculty. She craned her neck, hoping to catch a glimpse of Iris, but could only make out the back of her dark head as she made her way down the aisle and took her place, five rows back on the left side, sitting on the aisle seat. She recalled from Iris' rehearsal commentary that this was to ensure she could get out easily when it was time for her speech.

Dr. Long was the first at the podium, followed by several other board members who Alice didn't recognize. Truth be told, her mind wasn't _exactly_ on the ceremony. In fact, she'd let her thoughts drift about…wandering away from the crowded, rather overheated auditorium (she was beginning to fan herself with the program)…tumbling down the rabbit hole…into her own private Wonderland…

_

* * *

_

_The costume factory was impressively large, with a high, nearly cathedral-like ceiling stretching far above her. The hallways had been narrow, almost cramped, but the room she found herself in now was expansive. There was a mess of electronic parts, lying dismembered, some parts cannibalized, others scattered about. Her rescuer was currently making a point of brushing some of these metallic remnants to the side, "cleaning house", so to speak. She recalled him doing the same thing every time she entered his office. The memory brought a smile to her face._

"_You shouldn't have done that…" she murmured, carefully sitting down upon the wooden platform, next to an impressive throne-like chair, fit for royalty with crimson cushions and a silvery frame, "When the police find out, they'll know it was you."_

"_By which time it is my intention to be as far away from Gotham, the police…and the Batman," he added a distinctly bitter touch to his words, "And not stop my departure until I am safely tucked away in secrecy."_

"_Where will you go?" she asked softly, titling her head a bit to look at him more properly, hoping he would do the same._

"_I have given thought to purchasing a little island somewhere, a place where I might live out the rest of my days in peace and quiet…" he mussed quietly, removing his hat and setting it down on a little desk, half of which was covered in saved mechanical parts. She hoped he didn't see the way her spine stiffened at his words. She didn't like to think of him being old, that his time might be running short. It sent unpleasant shivers up her spine and left a bitter taste on her tongue._

"_Perhaps I might open a little sunbonnet shop," he added, eyes drifting down to finally meet her gaze. He found her smiling at his dream—a silly little notion of a foolish man, that's all it really was—and felt himself smile in turn. He had missed her smile greatly. Missed her voice, her laughter…the playful little gleam that came to her eyes while they sat in the privacy of his office, enjoying tea—he remembered the day he had introduced her to Earl Grey._

_Such pleasant things…he had forgotten how to enjoy them without her company._

"_That sounds lovely," she said, still smiling. Her eyes fell to a small bag—burlap or perhaps leather—from which a vast collection of dolls had spilled. Curious as ever, she reached out, taking one carefully into her palm. _

_They were odd little things, seeming to have no real shape or form, save for the head and torso. Each was clothed simply, the clothes made from brightly colored fabric that felt soft to the touch—cotton, she suspected. She turned it slowly between her fingers, examining it from all sides while trying to recall where she'd seen something like it before. A brief moment or two passed, and finally she remembered—the Vreeland party (two nights ago, was it now?), where Veronica had been parading these dolls around, all too glad to share the adventures of the rainforest. She vaguely recalled snippets of the tale surrounding these dolls—tell them your problems, then put them under your pillow at night, and the dolls would simply take all your troubles away by morning. What were they called…?_

"_Worry Men…" his voice, softer than usual, caught her attention. Her eyes lifted back up to his face, finding a wary, maybe even frightened expression, "You've seen them before?"_

"_I was at Veronica Vreeland's welcoming back party," she answered. The calm, innocent expression on her face disappeared as she watched the way he tensed, "Jervis? What is it?"_

"_Did she…give you one, perchance?" he was clearly making an attempt to remain calm, neutral. He was failing miserably._

_She paused, thinking over the details of that night. After a moment, she nodded, reaching into her pocket and pulling the little doll out. Naturally, carrying it around in the rain wasn't quite how they were supposed to be used, but having it there, close to her had given some inane comfort that, however ridiculous, was still present—a little like her own private worry stone, really. "I haven't used it. Truthfully, I haven't slept in the last two days, so they wouldn't do me much good."_

_He visibly relaxed, which only spiked her curiosity all the more (such a curious girl she was turning out to be). As he silently (though politely, as always) reached out for the doll, she surprised herself, closing her hand around the doll before he could take it. "Why do you ask?" she said quietly, "And kindly don't tell me it was idle curiosity, Jervis. Your curiosity is never __**idle**__."_

_His eyes widened briefly, surprised at her boldness, but then his smile returned. "I do believe you were my secretary for too long, Alice." he murmured, letting his hand drift up to his hat and set it down on a small end table, "The truth is…I wasn't curious. Though, if I am not very much in error…__**you**__ are."_

* * *

"Thank you, Mr. Grate," Dr. Long's voice jerked Alice unexpectedly out of her stupor, bringing her back to the ceremony, "Now then, it is my great honor and privilege to present our last speaker for this evening." He was rubbing his hands together eagerly—too eagerly for Alice's taste. Looking around at the graduates, she mentally berated herself, seeing they all were clutching their diplomas. She'd missed it—but, she reminded herself, she hadn't missed Iris' speech. That was all that mattered.

"I'm happy to present to you a student of Gotham State who has done us all proud during her time here. We will be sorry to see her leave us, and wish her only the best for her future. Please welcome Iris DeLaine."

Alice let herself relax for a moment—only a brief, passing moment. Seeing her sister's face as she approached the podium, Alice couldn't help but feel that relief wash away, replaced but sympathy. Once again, Iris was being put on show…like some prized dog. She tried to reassure herself—after this was over, Iris was done with Dr. Long and Gotham State University and could finally move on with her life. But, she noted as she felt herself deflate, Iris would never be done with being put on show and display. And judging by the look on her pale face, Iris knew it.

* * *

"You can't use that! No Latin words, Nygma!" Waylon fumed, "Iris said so!"

"Well, Iris isn't here, you overgrown reptile!" Edward shot back.

"Ya don't got to remind me about that!"

"Shut it, both of you!" Harley barked from the couch, making heads turn with her unusual show of command and domination, "Gotham State's graduation is on TV!"

"What?" Edward turned his head to catch a glimpse of the screen, "They've never broadcasted it before."

"They've never had a former patient of Arkham in the graduating class either," Pamela answered dryly.

"Speaking of which…Professor Crane," Harley said slowly, "I think you're gonna want to see this…"

"No thank you, Harleen," the professor said coldly, "I've seen enough of that wretched school and that miserable old cretin Long to last me a lifetime."

"Oh, I think you might wanna rethink that…" she said, a grin slowly spreading across her face, "Iris is on."

Waylon upset the coffee table (and Nygma with it) as he lunged for the sofa, planting himself beside the blonde. Seconds later, Pamela was sitting on Harley's other side, though with more grace than Waylon. The others weren't far behind. Once they had all congregated, Harley turned up the volume, just in time to hear Iris' opening.

* * *

"I'll be honest," Iris said quietly, "I had an entirely different speech written ten months ago for this day. But I know the real reason that…" her eyes swept over the audience, "almost the entire student body is here…you all want to hear me talk about Arkham." She sighed quietly, "One of my earliest lessons in my childhood was to never disappoint the public, so I suppose if you want to hear about it…you'll hear about it." She felt like crushing something against the multitude of eager faces that surrounded her in the auditorium; hearing the murmurs of excitement from behind her made every nerve in her body tingle furiously. All the same, she knew what she wanted to say, and she would say it.

"I came to Gotham State University five years ago, as a twelve year old high school graduate and therefore the youngest student ever admitted to the university." She paused for a moment, thinking hard and playing it off as a dramatic pause. Now came the time to choose her words carefully—to tell the truth, brutally honest, or to say every nice little thing that Dr. Long and the board wanted to hear. She really didn't have the energy to stir up emotions, so if she wanted to avoid that…she needed to say all the right things. Her mouth opened to speak, "I…"

She stopped.

Her eyes had found one of the (numerous) cameras around the area, broadcasting this ceremony and, more importantly, her speech, nationwide. And if the rest of the country was seeing it…that meant…her eyes went down to her watch.

Eight o'clock—recreation time at Arkham. And she knew exactly who would be watching this—Waylon, Edward, Harleen, Pamela…Harvey and Arnold…Jervis…

_Jonathan…_

She took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment. When she did that, she felt like she was back in Arkham, sitting in the rec room with the others, laughing and teasing each other—free in each other's company…free to be who they really were…

Her eyes opened again, and her face composed itself into a smooth smile, a calculating smile…cool and calm. She knew they would recognize that smile.

"But," she said, picking up from where she'd left off, "My real education didn't begin until ten months ago…when I was institutionalized at Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane. There…I met some people who…changed me. I can't say whether or not they changed me for the better…or even for worse. All I do know…is that I was changed for good."

Her eyes drifted down to Alice. Seeing the shining look of pride on her sister's face somehow encouraged her—made her feel alive in a strange new way. Returning a small smile, she continued, "It has taken me seventeen years—very long and draining years—to accept that I will always be different. I spent far too many years of my childhood, making fruitless attempts to mold into society, to disregard my individuality. Spending ten months surrounded by a group of people—all of them very unique…very _special_ people—who are infamous for their originality and character…it was a very _enlightening_ experience."

* * *

"_Hey, toots!" an arm waved frantically in the air, catching attention almost instantly, "You don't have to sit over there by your lonesome! Come on over! We've got room!"_

_A pause, then Iris slowly made her way over to the source of the summons—a blonde perched on the edge of the metal tables stationed in the cafeteria. Her golden hair was pulled up in two matching ponytails, swinging enthusiastically with her energetic motions. The sleeves and ankles of her uniform were rolled up on both arms and legs, giving her the appearance of an enthused preteen. Despite her childish looks, Iris recognized this one from news broadcasts—Harleen Quinnzell, aka Harley Quinn, and she was no child. In fact, if Iris recalled correctly, she was at least in her mid twenties. Not that you could tell it by looking at her, of course._

"_C'mon, toots," she beamed, scooting over and patting the empty place on the bench, "We won't bite!"_

_There was a curvaceous redhead with her. She brushed some hair over her shoulder and gave Iris a rather warm and calming look while nodding at the blonde, "Harl really doesn't bite…just don't let her hug you, or you'll be crushed to death."_

* * *

"When you're a child…they ask you to make a family tree. They say it's meant to help you, to let you see where you came from." Iris continued, "Well, that's all well and fine, but even when it's all laid out for you to see, sometimes you don't even feel that you came from this tree of wealth and status and high society. You're born into it, but that doesn't mean you want to belong to it. And when that's the case…you spend your whole life looking for where you belong…to find that one place that just feels right." Her eyes met Alice's, "And when you can't find it yourself, I guess life has its subtle little way of letting you know…"

* * *

"_Now __**there's**__ something new to look at!" a heavily accented voice caught Iris' attention, bringing her gaze to a far corner of the library, where a small, balding and bespectacled man was sitting with a puppet in his lap. At the puppet's words, the man turned bright pink, stuttering out an apology that was quickly drowned by the raucous tone of his wooden doll._

"_What's yer name, sweetheart? Don't think we've seen you around before. I know I'd remember an ass like __**that**__!"_

_The man's face went from pink to crimson. Iris blinked, then gave her head a light toss and threw him a small, but nonetheless suggestive, smile, "You can look all you like, Woody…just don't touch. I have my own special way of removing splinters."_

_He let out a bark of laughter, "You got guts, baby! I like that…what's yer name?"_

"_DeLaine," she replied smoothly, "Iris DeLaine. And yours, log?"_

"_Scarface," he said, bowing low before turning his head to face the blushing ventriloquist, "Dummy, where are yer manners? Take me over there! And clean yerself up, will ya? Make me embarrassed to be seen with ya!"_

"_Y…yes, sir, Mr. Scarface…" he said, trembling as he brought the puppet to sit beside Iris on the sofa, "A…Arnold Wesker, ma'am…" he stuttered._

"_Ma'am is what they call my dear mother," she answered with a reassuring smile, "Just call me Iris, alright, Arnold?"_

* * *

"I guess you could say life has its subtle ways of doing a lot of things." Iris added in a soft murmur, "It lets you know where you belong…even when you can't see it at first. It has its way of getting you through the hard times—and I don't mean passing midterm exams. I mean the times where you don't even want to get up anymore…because what's the point? How can anything good come out of this day…when all you're going to see are more smirks because you don't look like the rest…all you hear are whispers…and you know they're talking about you…all you feel is exhaustion…weary…drained. Why do you want to get up and face that again?"

She paused, swallowing quietly, "But it seems life doesn't appreciate being dismissed…ignored…and so…" again, her eyes met with her sister's, "Life gives you someone to look forward to meeting…every day of every week of every month. But sometimes," she straightened up, "Sometimes, life decides to test you. It wants to make sure…make sure you can live your life without that person. And if you pass the test…" her small smile mirrored Alice's now, "Life rewards you."

_By bringing that person back to you…to your arms…where they belong._

* * *

"_Here's the rec room, toots!" Harley beamed, skipping into said area, twirling in place for a moment. Ivy rolled her eyes slightly._

"_It's nothing special," she added in a low whisper to Iris' ear, "But as you've probably figured out, it's a lot better than the cells."_

_Iris nodded quietly, her eyes sweeping over the room. Most of the faces were recognizable from news broadcasts and some police files she'd been able to look through briefly…but there was one that she knew on a more personal level._

"_Iris DeLaine…" the voice was more raspy and gruff than she remembered it, but she personally thought it fit him, particularly considering his new appearance. Harvey Dent rose, hand outstretched for hers in a gesture that was reminiscent of his days as district attorney…when they'd first met, "So, they finally decided to take the short way out and throw you in here with us?"_

"_And they threw away the key," she added with a smirk, "It's been a long time, Mr. Dent…frankly, I think I like you better this way. It suits your attitude."_

_He gave a harsh bark of laughter, "Still the same little spitfire, I see. Good to know they didn't stomp that out of you."_

_Iris smiled a bit more, "I'd have to say the same about you, Mr. Dent…"_

"_Drop the pleasantries, kid," he dismissed, "Harvey will do just fine."_

"_Fine by me, Har—"_

"_Iris?"_

_Harley's squeal identified the new speaker before Iris could turn around—as though she needed to see their face to know who it was, "Professor Crane! How was it with Docta Leland?"_

_She slowly turned, her exposed blue eye finally meeting a pair of black eyes that she hadn't seen in months—only two months, in reality. For her…it seemed like another lifetime. And yet she recognized him, clear as moonlight. He looked a bit thinner (if that was possible) and paler than the last time she'd seen him, but everything else was the same…though he wore a look of surprise that she'd never seen before. He was far too proud and reserved to display shock on a daily basis._

_Pushing it all aside for a moment, she took a step forward and wrapped her arms tightly around him, burying her face in his shoulder._

"_I missed you." she whispered._

* * *

"And sometimes…" she said quietly, "Sometimes that reward is unexpected…but that doesn't mean it's not wonderful." She could see memories swimming amongst joyful tears in Alice's eyes now, "And today…" she gestured out to her fellow graduates behind her, "you have all been rewarded—some of you more than others." Iris took a deep breath, then composed her face into a calm and pleasant smile, "Congratulations, graduates…you did it."

An eruption of noise followed her final words. Behind her, rows and rows of purple robes stood up, their bearers cheering and hollering out their success. Hundreds of identical caps followed the first (who really knew which head it belonged to), spiraling up into the air with an air of finality. While all attention was elsewhere, she fixed her gaze on the nearest camera—the camera that had caught her gaze fifteen minutes earlier. Not caring who else was watching the broadcast—after all, only a select group of people mattered right now—she let her left eye fall briefly in a wink, then her mouth curved up into a smile. She knew her message would be as clear to them as if she'd spoken it aloud.

"_See you soon_,"

* * *

Amid the bustle and excitement, Iris maneuvered her way through the crowd, finally locating Alice near a back wall where she was standing on a chair, craning her neck to look for the dark-haired girl.

"Get down from there, Alice," Iris smiled, "You'll break something if you fall."

The blonde hopped down, throwing her arms around the taller girl, "Oh, Iris…congratulations! I can't believe it!"

"Neither can I," a crisp voice agreed from behind. Both girls turned to see Janet Van Dorn standing behind them, her lips pursed as though she'd just swallowed a lemon, "A moving speech, DeLaine…quite heartwarming…"

"Apparently, there was one heart I forgot to defrost," Iris commented, her eyes cold, "But I wanted to thank you, Miss Van Dorn, so I'm glad you could come."

"Thank me?" she repeated frostily.

"Yes…" she nodded calmly, "For what you did. Sending me to Arkham was the best thing you could ever have done for me."

The brunette bristled slightly, but kept her cool, "Just remember the conditions of your parole, young lady…if I so much as _think_ you have been in Jonathan Crane's company, even for half a _second_…"

"That won't be necessary, Janet," a new voice—a male voice—spoke quickly, "Iris has far more important matters now…this is all in the past now. We must continue on to the future, no?"

"Indeed," Van Dorn said, composing her face at once into a pleasant smile, shaking the man's offered hand, "A delight to see you again…you're here for Iris. I presume?"

"Of course…I couldn't miss such a momentous occasion." The charming smile remained on his face until she had left, then he turned to face both girls, who stood with identical expressions of stony silence, "Isn't that right, girls?"

Iris was the first to speak, swallowing back her retort, "Hello…Daddy."


	18. Family Reunion

"_A man should never neglect his family for business."_

_~Walt Disney_

Chapter 18: Family Reunion

Marcus DeLaine stood now facing both his daughters, a calm and quite nearly imperious smile set on his face. He was tall, not unlike his youngest daughter, with long arms and legs toned through years of working with a personal trainer. His unnaturally tall form was dressed for the occasion in a sharp black suit, complete with polished shoes, a pale blue Oxford and black pinstriped tie. His combed hair was jet black, but while Iris' was a soft, natural black, her father's was _too_ black, as though from a box of hair dye to hide any grey hairs that might be waiting to poke up on the surface; a few short strands of hair fell into his eyes with a casual elegance that had been known to sweep many a women off their feet. His eyes were sharp blue, like his children, but they had none of Alice's warmth or Iris' vivacity. They were cold, frozen pools that held nothing, least of all any hint of the smile on his face.

Alice quivered slightly beside Iris. She'd never realized just how intimidating her father was to look at. She remained beside her sister, trying to absorb some of her warmth and bravery.

"Iris," he spoke with the hint of an English accent. His long arms reached out, wrapping the unresponsive girls in a tight hug, keeping them close, "Both my girls…finally united together. I never would have imagined!"

"Don't you mean," Iris said frostily, "you never imagined we'd make the connection? But then again, I mustn't forget myself, right, Daddy? You _were_ going to mention that you had two daughters…eventually, right?"

"Why, didn't I already, Iris my dear?" he replied smoothly. "I distinctly recall mentioning it when you were just a little thing—but Sophia and Maria would not hear of you two talking to each other. I'm so pleased that you're finally together—and in the same house, just as you always should have been."

Alice felt her knees tremble with nerves and grief; how could this man lie so easily and smoothly about something so important. Feeling herself need to gag, she untangled herself from his firm grip. "Why…are you here, Father?" she whispered, her voice sounding distant and even hoarse to her ears.

"Why? My dear, I'm here for your sister's success, of course!" Marcus reached out, patting her shoulder with a smile—a completely unnerving smile at that. Alice felt her stomach knot and churn unpleasantly—violently even.

"Would you…care for a drink, Father?" she managed to ask, her voice stiff and nearly croaking.

"Ever the hospitable one!" he laughed, "Thank you, dearest, but we mustn't tarry. I came here to get you girls and then be off…we'll have plenty of time to change clothes if we leave right now."

"And just where are we going?" Iris asked, not budging an inch.

"Why, to your party of course!" he beamed, his smile making Alice wince slightly. Fortunately, she was standing behind Iris and he didn't notice.

"Party?" Iris commented dryly, "Oh, Daddy, you shouldn't have…I'm sure all the socialites that you invited will be positively ecstatic with the invitation."

He seemed anything but displeased with her comment, or rather he just chose to ignore it, "Come along, girls…I have some very important people waiting for us tonight…mustn't keep the public waiting."

Alice moved closer to her sister, biting her inner lip anxiously. She felt Iris' cool hand rest over her own and relaxed. Iris wouldn't let anything bad happen to her, and as a big sister, it was her duty to return the favor. And she most certainly would do it.

* * *

"Iris…does this dress…reveal too much? Or is that just me?"

"It's just you."

"Are you sure? I…I don't think Mother would—"

Two long fingers abruptly pressed themselves to her lips, firmly silencing her words, "What did I say?" Iris said stiffly, "About the _M_ word?"

"But, Iris," she protested, "Really…look at me!"

"My _god_, your shoulders are exposed." Iris rolled her eyes, taking a slow sip of the champagne, "You look stunning, Alice…now stop fidgeting with your dress and let's try to be social."

Alice paused in the middle of adjusting the bodice of her gown, "But I thought you didn't want to be here?"

"I still don't." she said, downing the remaining liquid and immediately fetching another one, "But I suppose that enough champagne will make this seem a bit more worthwhile."

"You're going to get drunk."

"No, I won't." Iris replied, already halfway through the crystal-detailed glass in her hand, "Let's go."

Chewing her lower lip slightly, the blonde followed her sister's lead. She remembered her manners at such occasions as these, having been well versed in them from a young age. Curtsey to the mayor and his wife; let the mayor kiss your hand; shake his wife's hand; keep your smile sweet and polite; don't eat more than one (small) piece of anything; only drink one glass of champagne; never hydrate yourself or you'll have to be running to the powder room every five minutes; keep your head high and eyes low; never let the makeup smear; fold your hands when you sit down; never mix up the salad fork with entrée fork; _sample_ everything, never finish it completely—no man likes a wife who can eat as much as he; barely touch your dessert—a sweet tooth makes a woman fat, and no man wants a fat wife; dance with every man who asks you; let his hands go where they may, he's only making sure he approves of the product before he buys it; and most important of all, women are meant to be seen and not heard—do not speak unless you are spoken to first.

"Iris…" Alice said, jerking herself out of her thoughts, eyes trained on her sister taking in her fourth glass of liquor (when had she managed to drink the third one?), "Don't you think you're…overdoing it a bit?"

"What would make you say that?"

The blonde opened her rose-painted lips to answer, only to feel a long hand wrap over her shoulder. She jumped slightly in apprehension, having a habit of associating unknown hands with various suitors thrown at her by Mother. Her blue eyes darted to the side, then relaxed (slightly), "Oh…hi, Daddy."

"There's my two _beautiful_ girls." He said with a beaming smile that had every woman in the room (married or not) on their knees. His left arm swept over, wrapping around Iris' narrow shoulders to bring her closer, "Now then, come with me, Iris…there's someone I want you to meet."

"An executioner who has no qualms about murdering children?" she asked with a hopeful edge to her sardonic tone.

Marcus laughed it off, no doubt attributing her statement to the fact that she was on her fifth glass, "Hardly, my darling. Now, where did he sneak off to…?"

"He?" Iris repeated, body stiffening up in a manner that one usually did not apply to intoxicated individuals, "_He_? Father, who is—"

"Ah, Christopher, there you are!" The older man lifted his hand from Alice's shoulder, though his fingers tightened on Iris', keeping her firmly within his reach, "Iris darling, there is someone I would like you to meet." His free hand gestured towards a young man of perhaps twenty, certainly no older; he was of average height with a head of dark gold waves that were neatly combed back in a respectable manner. His hazel eyes looked at Marcus with respect as his hand extended for the elder's. He was dressed respectably in a sharp blue suit, complete with a crisply ironed white Oxford shirt and polished shoes.

"Mr. DeLaine," he said, inclining his head in a short bow. His voice was deep and refined. It reminded Alice most unpleasantly of Billy, "A pleasure, once again, sire. And this must be…Iris?"

"Yes," he said, smile in place so firmly that it might have been painted on, "Iris, may I present Christopher Fairview. His father and I used to serve on several committees together, before you were born."

A few glasses of champagne were nothing to fuss over—if anything, they should have served to make her feel relaxed and more at ease in this highly uncomfortable setting. Much to her dismay, the liquor was failing to accomplish its designated task, and it was only the lack of real hydration that prevented her from grabbing a few more glasses off the nearest tray. If her father was introducing her to men, she was going to be unwillingly led into dangerous waters. She wished she could have some manner of protection—namely a gun.

The boy—she would not acknowledge him as a man—was maybe 5'10"—almost four inches shorter than her without her heels. His dark blonde waves might have been attractive, had they not been smeared with what looked to be the equivalent of two bottles of hair gel. His eyes finally drifted over to her. She knew better than to expect the same respect which he gave to her father. His expression twitched with the effort to not frown—he was not impressed with her at all.

"Christopher, why don't you and Iris take a walk on the terrace? I'm told there is a lovely view from the balcony."

Her father's hand was firm on her shoulder, pushing her forward without a second thought. The boy's arm slipped around her waist—loosely. "Of course," he said, "Follow me, Miss DeLaine."

* * *

"A lovely view indeed," he said, gazing out at the city with a look of absolute boredom. Iris rubbed her temples with more pressure than was really necessary, wishing more than ever for another glass of champagne. This conversation could only hope to become interesting if alcohol was involved.

"Why are you here?" she finally asked, not in the mood to play any more games.

He gave her a look that one gives an insipid child, "He did not inform you?"

"Obviously not," she answered, teeth slightly gritted.

A quiet sigh, "You are seventeen, correct?" at her curt nod, he continued, "Well, our fathers are quite familiar with each other…as close as two men can reasonably become, you might say. And during the course of their relationship, they have done many things for each other…that being the case, you could compare it to a sort of constant partnership, in which one gives to the other and then it rewarded with a gift. And it is your father's turn to be the bearer of gifts for Father."

"Get on with it, if you please…" she whispered, forcing her voice to remain low so as to not reveal her growing frustration. She did _not_ appreciate being talked down to this way.

"Do you not understand what I have just told you, Miss DeLaine?"

Her hand shook slightly; a slow, calming breath stilled the tremor, "I'm afraid I don't." She answered quietly. That was a lie, of course—she had a perfectly good indication of what he was saying, but she didn't want to believe it…not until he had verbalized it as clearly as possible

"You, Miss DeLaine, are that gift."

It took a great deal of self-control for her to not snap the empty champagne glass in half, "Excuse me…?" she said slowly, "Are you saying that you are I are to—"

"Marry," he cut over her, snide voice a sharp blade over her own voice, "Yes, Miss DeLaine…you are going to be my wife. Admittedly," his eyes cast over her for a moment, "I have seen better, but I will not ignore the relationship between our parents. And so…" he gave a theatrical sigh, "I shall endure for the greater good. After all, your father has provided me a handsome dowry."

She looked at him for a long ten minutes, then gave a very, _very_ forced smile, "I'm sorry…you must forgive my ignorance, but I was under the impression that civilization had moved _past_ paying off a husband to take a young woman as a bride."

"Young woman? You certainly do know how to flatter yourself, Miss DeLaine," his nose wrinkled slightly, "You're not even eighteen years of age."

"She will be soon enough," Marcus said, his long hand sweeping down once again to wrap fingers around her shoulder, "I see you two are getting acquainted—what do you think of her, Christopher?"

The boy gave a light roll of the shoulders, "We will uphold the agreement, Mr. DeLaine. I will take her as my wife."

The smashing of the glass in her hand might have been painful, even for one who was quite accustomed to pain by this point, but Iris was shaking too badly to even notice the shards of glass protruding from her hand or the blood dripping down to the white-sanded tile. A gift, was she? A little trophy to be locked up inside a glass case and put on for the whole world to see? Was this her future then—to dress up in neat little gowns, put her hair up in pins, put a face of glamour, sit and fold her hands in her lap like a good little girl? And to spend the rest of her life with this…this…self-righteous, arrogant, immature _boy_?

No, sir. No, sir, absolutely not.

"Allow me to make this as…clear and simple as possible—for the both of you," she was shaking. The pain from her butchered palm was starting to make its way into her conscious thought, "I am not a little puppy who can be led around on a leash. I am not a little doll who is put up on display for the public. I am not some helpless little girl who can't make a single decision for herself—who needs constant adult supervision. I am not the weak and pitiful little Cinderella who is waiting in some dungeon for the handsome white knight to come rushing in and save her and then ride away into the sunset to his castle far, far away," her words were nearly strained, her voice becoming breathless due to lack of oxygen, "And I am _not_, above all, interested in signing the rest of my life away to some boorish, brainless _ape_ who wouldn't have graduated from high school if it wasn't for the new computer lab and fancy addition to the school gymnasium that his Daddy so _graciously_ donated out of the kindness of his heart!"

* * *

"Miss DeLaine, I really don't think—"

"Please, just let me in." the innocent and gentle approach was always a good first-attempt. Come on too brash or hasty, you draw suspicion; be plain out rude about it, and you come off as a pest. The innocent ones always attract the least attention.

"Your father wouldn't—"

"I need to be let in." When the innocent ploy fails you, you move up to the insistent phase. People react differently to desperation—it was only a matter of testing out the individual reaction.

"I have orders—"

"Do it for me? You know me—I won't do anything bad." the pout was a childish tactic, but often successful. Of course, if you're dealing with someone who is dead-set on performing their job appropriately, you have to find their weakness. Memorize Daddy's employee list, including who is up for promotion in two weeks, and then you can move on to the last and most effective ploy.

"Miss DeLaine, I must ask you to leave or—"

"Let me rephrase, Adam," she said, dropping the cute façade, "I have just had to make a speech in front of a pack of students I don't like, all to please a man I despise with all my heart. I am tired and would love nothing more than to go home, but instead I was dragged off to a party to which I didn't want to come. And now I've been packaged as a bride for an impudent boy who I would love to gut like a fish. Do I make myself clear?"

"Please do come in," he snapped his body in half bowing for her, opening the door like a gentleman. She smiled thinly.

"Thank you," she said politely, "Now…would you please leave us, Adam? We need some _alone time_."

The metal doors fell closed behind her with a soft _swoosh_. Her body turned slowly, reaching back with long fingers and twisting the lock into place. Titanium-enhanced doors fell with a resounding _clack_, sealing her away from the outside world. It was cold in here, but with the drop in temperature came a sense of peace, of tranquility—no matter how numbing the sensation might prove to be.

All around were stainless steel walls, gleaming in the moonlight the filtered in through the windows. They were high—nearly uncomfortably high. They reminded her of the lonely window in her cell at Arkham. All around her were large tanks—almost fifteen feet long and at least six feet deep. They were seemingly empty, save for an abundance of small tree limbs and dried leaves.

Her eyes were not for them.

Her attention was solely for the massive glass area built up against the far wall. It took up the entire span of the wall, containing a large, fully grown tree and an earthy, grass-sprinkled floor. She stepped over slowly, the hem of her dress trailing along the frigid tiled floor, now that her heels had been discarded against the door. Her shoulders were rolled back, head high, face betraying no emotion…save a sense of utter peace.

Long fingers reached up and touched the glass.

_Tap. _

_Tap._

_Tap._

From the darkness of the glass prison, the shadows slowly began to _hiss_. What had previously appeared to be little more than a large overhang from the tree began to move, shifting, writhing, uncoiling slowly. It began to move down, lowering itself with lazy grace. The limb groaned quietly under the weight.

Iris' blue eye finally came face to face with a pair of poisonous gold eyes, with slit pupils, black as night and narrow as the eye of a needle. A forked tongue flitted out slowly, tasting her scent through the glass barrier. She stared slowly into the unblinking eyes for a long moment, and then crossed over to the right side of the tank. A small ladder, black metal, was propped up, stretching to the top of the glass. The glass was bullet-proof, to ensure any escape, but the heavy lock fastening the top to the surrounding walls was easy enough to remove. After all, she had plenty of years of practice.

She pulled the small opening—two sliding panes—apart, opening up a space large enough for a grown man to slip through. For her, it was like dropping a coin into a glass of water.

Her feet met the dried leaves with a sharp _crunch_. Another hiss, and the golden eyes appeared before her own in a matter of seconds. Her hand slowly rose up, palm arched vertically before the smooth, scale-covered snout.

"Do you remember me?" she whispered.

A heart-wrenching silence greeted her words.

Then, cool scales met her warm skin as the snout pressed to her palm. Her lips turned up in a smile.

"Hello, Artemis,"


	19. Broken Glass

"_Calamity is the perfect glass wherein we truly see and know ourselves."_

_~ William Davenant_

Chapter 19: Broken Glass

Iris much preferred the inside of the tank to the cold exterior; it was nicely humid in here, adjusted daily to accommodate the reptile's needs. She wasn't a proponent of humidity, at least not normally. But for whatever reason (which was still unknown to her even after all these years), she quite loved it here. Perhaps it was the cozy surroundings of the tank, just the right balance of open space to breathe while being closed just enough that it wouldn't border on suffocating. Or it might have been the peace and quiet afforded to her within the glass walls.

Or it could have been the familiar feeling of being this close to her beloved pet—the creature that wrought fear and terror in the hearts of society. Her eyes slowly opened, letting them lazily trace the vibrant gold scales, the color darkened here and there to turn gold into bronze, and all of it splotched with black streaks—narrow and deliberate streaks like those of a tiger, stacked on top of each other and spiraling down slightly into the smooth curves of the coils. All in all, it painted a beautiful and powerful image, ending in a large, off-oval shaped head with a rounded snout and a pair of gleaming eyes as gold as its coils.

Those powerful coils—cold to the touch and as thick as a man's thigh—were currently wrapped around two limbs of the small tree so graciously donated for its purposes, winding down, down, down to the leaf-coated floor, where its large head rested on Iris' legs, both folded together to create a makeshift seat for the reptile. The slit pupils were loosely focused on her face while her long fingers slowly stroked over the cool scales of its head. It was oddly picturesque, nearly like a child petting her beloved puppy…save that this "puppy" had scales, and powerful coils capable of crushing a man to death.

"I missed you, Artemis," she whispered. A small smile twitched her lips as the snake looked up at the mention of its name, "Yes…you remember your name, don't you? What have they been calling you while I was away, hmm?" She pressed her index and middle fingers to the base of the skull, massaging slowly in a circular pattern, "Did they start calling you _Specimen # 1275_? Resorting you—the most magnificent creature God ever put on the earth—to a mere number. How passé…you deserve much better. That's why I named you Artemis…goddess of the hunt…the clever huntress, always triumphant over her offenders…and you will be. You're nearly full grown now…how time flies, no?"

Her fingertips tingled slightly as the forked tips of the serpent tongue darted out to taste her skin, reacquaint its senses with its mistress' scent, her flavor. Iris smiled approvingly, rewarding the movement with another caress. "Good girl…"

"Miss DeLaine! Miss DeLaine!"

"I heard you the first time, Adam," she said, wincing slightly as the last outburst rattled her eardrums. Artemis recoiled defensively, disliking the ruckus. The security guard trembled slightly at the venomous glare he received from the anaconda, but maintained his stance as bravely as he could, "Miss DeLaine…" he panted softly, suddenly realized how fast and hard he had sprinted from the top floor to the basement—down the stairs, no less, "Miss DeLaine…I'm supposed to…bring you back upstairs. It's time for Specimen 1275's injections and your father wants you to rejoin the party so he can announce your engagement to Christopher Fairview—which, if I may, is a lovely match. The Fairviews are among the wealthiest and most respected families in New York, especially Gotham City. It will be a wonderful wedding and an even happier marriage, I'm sure—"

"I'd sooner rather douse myself in kerosene and light a match," Iris replied coolly, "There will be no marriage, Adam. And _that_ is something you _can_ be sure of."

"All the same, Miss DeLaine, it's time for me to give the injections—"

"Injections?" she said quietly.

He watched the young girl hoist herself out of the cage, dropping down from the ladder with cat-like grace. Every step she took towards him brought his body temperature down another ten degrees, until he was shivering like a small dog left out in a blizzard.

"What _injections_?" she whispered. Her voice was calm, but her eye was a frozen shard of glass.

He swallowed (aka gulped), "W-well…it's quite standard…"

"Adam," her voice silenced his mumblings at once, "What has been going on since I left?"

He trembled almost pitifully. Her gaze actually softened, "You're afraid of losing your job. And I understand that. But you must also understand that I care quite a bit for this creature," she indicated the anaconda, "She is like my own child…and if my father has been injuring her in any way…"

"It isn't…not technically dangerous…everything is designed to go according to plan…" he was positively petrified now. She felt that familiar thrill that always took her as she witnessed the terror of another, but she pushed it back down. Now was not the time.

"Please," the word was almost acidic on her tongue, but the poor man clearly needed to hear it, "Carl," the use of the first name was always a good source of comfort, especially when they were scared out of their very wits.

In the sixty seconds that it took her to speak two words, Carl Adam had been battling with himself. It was best to run right now, dragging her with him to the door, then locking her out as quickly as he possibly could and completing his assigned duties with the creature.

_But she said she cared for it_.

And then she said his name, and the dam came crashing down faster than a bank in a hurricane.

* * *

Whatever Iris had been expecting, it most certainly didn't involve watching him dissolve into tears on the very spot where he stood. It was, no other word for it, absolutely horrible to witness. This was a fifty-five year old man who had worked for her father for 25 years as a lowly security guard, when he was more than qualified for the promotion to chief of security (an application that was filed every year and rejected just as often). He was built quite similar to Dr. Golden—a bit taller but just as round about the middle—with a large, fluffy mustache that reminded her of the Walrus and a head of fluffy brown, white-streaked hair. She had always been fond of him in her own right—he was the only one who had ever taken kindly to her as a child, always offering her little sweets behind her father's back. To see him now sobbing in place like an overgrown infant just about brought a tear out of her own eye.

"It's all _my_ fault!" he wailed again, this time throwing himself at her feet, burying his tear-soaked cheeks in her skirt, "I should have stopped him, I should have gone to Gordon, I should have walked away—but I need this job, Miss DeLaine! My little girl—she's just about your age—she wants to go to college—I need the money! And I thought if I stayed…if I kept quiet…"

"You'd get the promotion," Iris said, quite regretting her words from earlier, threatening to ensure that he never saw such a position upgrade. Considering she did not regret often, this was saying something, "Tell me, right now, what is going on, Adam. Tell me _everything_."

He gave a great sniff, hand fumbling for a cloth in his pocket, "It…it was only supposed to be some ridiculous set of experiments…a company on its l-last foot…it seemed that Mr. DeLaine just h-had nothing better to d-do than give them money for their research…b-b-but then…" he gave another sniff, wiping his face apologetically, "But then…he started giving more money…and then more…and then more…they were still an underground corporation, but he was shelling out millions of the company's profits to them…for these experiments…these horrible, horrible experiments…"

"And you were all told to keep quiet and look the other way," Iris whispered, understanding coming to her eyes.

He nodded vigorously, perhaps even violently, "These people…I swear, it's right out of a science fiction movie, Miss DeLaine…they're trying to create a perfect killing machine…and they experiment with snakes! The first step to make them massive…bigger than ever intended…they've been trying different combinations of…of growth hormones," now that he had started revealing the truth, he seemed quite incapable of stopping, "The first trials were horrible…the snakes all died. So t-then…they just started fattening them up…and then trying the injections in smaller doses, over a period of t-time…and Specimen 1275—"

"Artemis," Iris whispered, her voice tight.

"Y-yes, her…the scientists have become obsessed. She was only fifteen feet long when you left…it was all natural. But they've now become convinced that she is the one that will succeed. She is larger than any of the others…they're convinced that she will become the ultimate weapon…she's only b-been on the injections for….six months now…s-surely you've noticed that she'd become…larger…"

"How long is she?" Iris barely recognized her own voice. Her eyes stared vacantly at the snake, back facing the trembling man.

"T…T…" his tongue sputtered over his lips, moistening them before he tried again, "Thirty five feet long…longer than any of the others—I mean…the longest recorded anaconda before her was thirty-three feet long…and there are always reports of bigger ones, but…"

"How did I not notice…?" she whispered, her voice sounding more and more alien to her ears, "I was right there with her…I should have seen it—or maybe…I was just so…happy to see her again…my emotions blinded me…"

"Miss DeLaine…you mustn't b-blame yourself…"

"Why?" she whispered, voice hoarse, "Why would he allow this?"

"Why?"

* * *

Adam nearly had a heart attack at the soft hiss of Marcus DeLaine's voice, emitting like a stream of smoke from the doorway. The guard trembled, eyes darting back and forth between the towering figure of the CEO and the frozen form of his daughter, "Why, Iris?" he repeated, stepping forward, "Because we are on the brink of making history. Do you realize the money that thing will bring in for this company? People will pay _anything_ to see a snake of this size, and once the world has its attentions captivated, the military will follow…and even more money will come from it. Not unlike your marriage to the Fairview boy, my child. Once that alliance has been legally consummated, my old _friend_ will gladly donate any funds necessary. He's always wanted a grandchild, you see. And he'll pay as much as he's asked for to make sure the child is well cared for."

"You know I am unable to give birth," she whispered, staring at the glass panes as though hypnotized. She could see her father's reflection behind her own, "Did you mention that?"

"Charles did not say it was impossible—he only said it was improbable." Marcus said quietly, "And there are other ways of conceiving a child—and if those fail, there is always adoption."

"Having a grandchild means _everything_ to that man…and you would exploit that?" Iris was most certainly shaking now. She was manipulative…and conniving…and more often than not, quite malicious. After all, we learn from our parents…and this was the example that she had been born into, that she had been raised with: manipulate an old man who only wanted one last thing in this world, and lie to him…promise him an empty treasure…perhaps never tell the truth…and rob him of all that he still had, before he was even in his grave.

She wanted to vomit at the very thought.

"I won't do it."

"Excuse me?" he tried to keep his voice calm and soft, but the definite tightness told her that he'd heard her words perfectly.

"I will not do it." She repeated, slowly turning to face him, eyes hard and cold, "I am…many, many things—I admit that," her voice wavered slightly, but she held her ground, "But I am not…I will not become the kind monster that you would make me out to be. I won't marry that…pompous brat, only to let a dying man think he might achieve his one last hope and then rip it away from him." She looked at him, shaking her head slowly. There was no emotion on her face but contempt for him, "You…you disgust me. I knew you could stoop low, but not like this. Not to the point that you would do this to your own friend."

He took very slow, very deliberate steps towards her, "Are you questioning me, young lady?"

"You have no authority over me," she said quietly, "You threw it and every last shred of respect away for greed and power…like some filthy animal—"

_SLAP!_

Adam stifled a gasp as Marcus' hand came down across her face, hard. The strike of flesh on flesh echoed throughout the room like a gunshot. A high-pitched hiss came from inside the cage, followed by a _thunk_ as the snake whipped its head against the glass, trying to get out. Seconds later, a sharp _thud_ echoed around the room as her body hit the floor, propelled downward from the blow. Her uninjured cheek met the cold floor. It stung.

"You do not speak to me like that…" Marcus hissed, spitting out the words as though they would permanently brand her, "Now," he continued, slowly gathering himself together, "You and I are returning to the party. And I am going to announce your engagement to Christopher Fairview…and we are going to put all of this behind us. Do I make myself clear?"

"No…"

To Adam, it was barely a choked whisper from her lips. To DeLaine, however, it was clearly enough to spark the temper once more. A cry escaped her lips as, for the first time in seventeen years, her father hit her again. This time, he struck her with enough force to throw her back against the tank, her hands the only thing preventing her from falling to the floor.

"I am your father, Iris." He snarled, "You will do what I say, when I say it, and do not question me when I tell you to do it, _do I make myself clear_? Now stand up and come with me…_now_."

Her dark head slowly rose. Adam could see a thin trickle of blood seep down her lower lip, "You may have given birth to me…created me…brought me into this world." She whispered, coughing quietly, "But you were _never_ my father…"

"What was that…you said?" his voice was venomous.

"Fathers are kind…fathers protect you…fathers _raise_ you…" she slipped to one knee, but pulled herself back up, "You left me alone…for seven years…with a narcissistic woman suffering from borderline personality disorder, who was prone to unexpected, full-fledged psychotic rages in which she would repeatedly mutilate me…and then she would make me look at myself…remind me of how hideous I really was…that I would _always_ look this way…you saw the marks. You saw what she was doing to me and you did _nothing_!" her voice broke slightly, "Nothing…you just told me to endure it, that it would make me stronger in the long run of things." She was on her feet now, eyes blazing as she faced him, "No…no, you are not my father. And you can't play God anymore—not with nature…and not with me."

"And just what are you going to do about it?"

"Something…whatever it takes to stop you." She said quietly, "I'm not afraid of you anymore, _Father_. You can't control me anymore. You are _weak_…weak and pathetic."

She turned towards the door. Adam was already standing and pushing the door open. Yes—they would go to the police and tell them…they would tell the whole story. Marcus DeLaine would go to jail…Iris would inherit the company…everything would be alright in the end…it always turned out right. You just needed to be strong and have faith and—

Iris gave a choked cry.

The guard turned, nearly breaking his neck with the force with which he turned it round.

Marcus DeLaine grabbed her shoulders, shaking furiously. His eyes were dark with anger, glaring at his daughter as though it alone could destroy her. "I am _not_ weak!" he hissed, "Do you understand me? _I am not weak_!"

He threw her backwards, hard. Adam heard her back hit the glass of the tank. It was already cracked from the anaconda's lashing earlier. The briefest second passed, and then DeLaine's eyes widened—surprise, confusion, perhaps even fear. His hands remained frozen in place—almost as though longing to reach out and grab his daughter, yet unable to do so.

A loud, sickening crack of glass rattled the guard's eardrums. It almost sounded like bones breaking.

The wall shattered completely. Glass fell in a shower of needle-sharp, crystalline raindrops. Clattering on the floor…bouncing off each other…imbedding themselves into pale, exposed skin…staining themselves with blood…

Iris looked so surprised.

And so scared.


	20. Frozen

"_I can't feel my senses…_

_I just feel the cold._

_All colors seem to fade away._

_I can't reach my soul."_

_~ "Frozen" Within Temptation_

Chapter 20: Frozen

_The wall shattered completely._

_Glass fell in a shower of needle-sharp, crystalline raindrops. Clattering on the floor…bouncing off each other…imbedding themselves into pale, exposed skin…staining themselves with blood…_

_Pain…_

_And then there was nothing…_

Something was covering her arms…around both legs…her stomach…her back…it was stiff, unyielding. With the slightest shift, there was pain, and a sharp scratch from the wrappings. It hurt. Everything hurt.

Her eyes slowly opened.

At first, there seemed to be no color around her…it was all blank, unblemished, clean and clear. She blinked. Shapes slowly came into focus, taking their time, in no hurry to ease her confusion. She blinked again, pinching her eyelids together this time. As she pushed them apart, the room leisurely came into sharp detail.

White, clean, stainless walls surrounded her. The tiled floor was a pale, nauseating shade of pink. The sheets were white. The bandages that wrapped around her, tight, confining, unmovable…it was all white.

A female voice, high and shrill, suddenly shattered the suffocating silence of the room, "**Dr. Pathos, please report to the ICU. Dr. Pathos, the ICU please**."

Silence fell again.

Her eyes fell to the window, but the blinds were drawn closed. Her gaze darted back to her arms. The small area that was not bound with stark white cloth had a small IV needle piercing the skin, into the vein. She could see the medicine stand beside the bed. Her hand reached out, fingers wrapping around the metal pole, the width of her index and middle fingers together. She gave an experimental tug. It moved slightly, but the wheels screeched it to a stubborn halt on the floor. It wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.

Her other hand swung over, grabbing a hold of the pole. Her legs were next. At first, they were numb, as though she was paralyzed. Then, they returned to life, sharply and painfully objecting to this treatment. Her feet touched the floor, and she almost whimpered aloud from the cold shock.

She forced herself to stand. Her legs were weak and objected at once. They caved. This time, she did cry out as her knees forcefully smacked against the tiles. A tremor of white-hot pain darted through her nerves. Her body trembled, her stomach knotting with pain. Her body convulsed, heaving forward once, twice. On the third time, her right hand left the pole, grabbing for the small plastic bin beside her bed. The plastic sack tucked inside crinkled under her fingers.

She stayed hunched over the bin for what felt an eternity, but it could only have been ten minutes. As she forced herself back upright, her stomach tingled, completely emptied into a small, white bag. Her hand fumbled to tie it closed, tight; her left hand never leaving the pole—as though to do so would detach her from reality. Her head spun wildly. She felt hot. The metal was cool against her skin. Yes…this was tangible…it meant she was real, she was here in this place…she could feel.

One hand stacked slowly on top of the other, climbing its way up, up, up to the top until her arms could reach no higher. Her grip tightened, harder and harder. Her knuckles were white. She pulled down. She could see her muscles straining with the effort. Finally, finally, finally…she pulled herself into a standing position. Her legs wavered again; she forced her left foot forward, then her right, then left again, then right. Baby steps, taking her with excruciating slowness towards the window. The IV stand was patient, staying with her all the while, wheeling itself along with a leisurely stroll.

Her hand clasped the thin drawstring of the blinds, yanking it down. They groaned to life, snapping up with a vibrating rattle.

It was night.

Her forehead pressed almost violently into the glass. Hot tears stung at the corners of her eyes. Her father—her caregiver, her flesh and blood—had thrown her into a wall of glass…she was here in the hospital because of it—she could feel the stitches from where he'd thrown her into the wall, into a shower of glass shards. She should report it, tell the police what happened. But she was the recent release from an asylum. It was her word against his word—the word of a respected, disgustingly wealthy CEO who had the entire city paid off. Just like ten years ago…it was the word of a child against her mother.

"_Nothing more than the disgracefully overactive imagination of a little girl."_

The tears streaked down her face, hot and thick. Was this the justice system? That the wealthy and proud could pay off their debt with a fat check? And for the police—the defenders of justice—to take victims into custody while the abusers and attackers went free?

For an employer to throw away his best worker, the one who brought in billions to the company without asking anything in return, only to be fed to the wolves without any drop of compensation?

For the pompous and egocentric director of a university to interfere in the private business of his leading professor—based only the face that the professor in question was defending his prize student? And to publicly humiliate him instead of keeping it quiet?

For a mother to brutally abuse her only child, then walk away without even a slap on the wrist…all because she was "an upstanding members of the community who hadn't so much as a parking ticket on her record"? To brand her child as a liar and a brat desperate for attention?

Was this justice?

"No," the word was little more than a forced whisper from her dry and cracked lips, "No…"

"Iris!"

She knew that voice…she hadn't heard it in almost a month, but she knew it as sure as she knew every detail of that night. Her eyes traveled to the door, "Good evening, Doctor…"

"Iris, you shouldn't be out of bed!" Joan Leland's maternal instinct was in full throttle—Iris didn't know if that comforted her or upset her. The heels of her shoes clicked against the tiles as she rushed over to the window, catching Iris around the upper arms and pulling her back towards the bed. Little to her surprise, the teenager jerked away.

"I'm fine," she ground out, "How long have I been here?"

The doctor blinked, expecting her first question to be who had brought her to the hospital, not how long she'd been there. All the same, she composed her face and answered, "Three days…they almost thought you'd slipped into a coma, but it looks like you just hit your head hard on the floor."

"The floor?" Iris repeated, eyes sharp, "The floor? Never mind the floor, Joan…I hit my head harder on the glass tank than the damn floor."

"I know…that's why you need to get back into bed. Your father wouldn't—"

"My father…" she whispered, fingers whitening around the cold pole, "Yes, my father…where is he? Where is the bastard?"

Joan looked both frightened and confused, "I…he left—there was a business meeting he couldn't miss…"

Iris nodded slowly, her shoulders slowly beginning to shake. For the briefest moment, the doctor mistook her actions as those of grief. Seconds later, she realized they were not from tears, but from laughter—empty, deadened laughter.

"Business meeting he couldn't miss…" Iris nodded again, faster this time as she continued to laugh, leaning against the pole, "Of course there was a business meeting he couldn't miss. _Of course_ there was! There's always a business meeting—always a business partner—always an urgent meeting to attend or an important deal to make! Always something—always _anything_ to take him away…always, always…_always_!" tears were slipping down her cheeks now, yet she still smiled. It was a terrifying sight.

"Iris," Joan said, attempting to restore peace, "Now, just calm down and talk to me…"

"I'm done talking," Iris whispered, lifting her head sharply, the smile gone. "I'm done talking to you, and the police, and the justice system, and this whole goddamn civilized world!" the tears were cold now, bitter like the bite of a blizzard wind, "This world…it takes those who come into it—those who are different, who aren't the same as everyone else—and it rips them apart before they even had a chance…and as children, we have no one to blame but ourselves. It _isn't_ your fault…but how can you know that as a mere child? It's always your fault…no one else could possibly be blamed. Daddy wouldn't hit you…he wouldn't call you a _freak_ and a _failure_ and a _disgrace_ if you would just act like _normal_ kids. Mommy and Daddy would have loved you more if you hadn't been born a _freak of nature_. Daddy wouldn't beat you down again and again if you would just be _perfect_. Granny won't throw you into the cold, dark chapel to have you pecked again and again and again and again by crows, laying the foundation for your intense terror of those animals, if you weren't so _dirty_ and _filthy_ and _sinful_…just like your whore of a mother and your mongrel of a father—the father who abandoned the mother because he didn't want to deal with a child, and the mother who tossed you away to the arms of a religious fanatic great-grandmother because she didn't want you anymore than dear Daddy did." Her eyes were almost crimson with tears now, "Mother and Father…would have loved you…if you had just _done what you were supposed to do_ and been born beautiful. If you had just been gorgeous and perfect…you would be loved and happy. You wouldn't have turned out to be the _experiment_ that _failed_…and it was _all your fault_."

"Iris…"

She slapped away the hand that tried to touch her shoulder. Panting softly, her eyes dark and yet frighteningly clear, she continued, her voice no longer shaking. Her thoughts were clear now…complete and intact…and angry. So angry.

"Do you know why…you never get a response out of us in group therapy—or any other therapy, Dr. Leland?" Iris whispered slowly, her eyes piercing at the night sky, as though she could burn a hole clean through it with her mind, "It's because you don't care. We gave up on the idea that anyone in this world would ever care again. Our parents didn't care. Our peers didn't care. Our families didn't care. And so _we_ don't care."

"But someone does," Leland whispered, almost urgently, "Someone does care, Iris…we do care. We're trying to help you."

"You can't help us," she said quietly, "No one can."

"I'm trying."

"You'll give up eventually."

Leland shook her head, sadly, "What did this world do to earn your hate, Iris? What did this world do to make you give up on it so quickly? Why can't you give it a chance?"

Iris slowly straightened up, her shoulders rolling back lazily, yet regally. She seemed much taller now. Her right hand drifted up slowly, moving around to her face, and Leland watched as her fingers tucked hair behind her ear.

She turned around.

The plastic-rimmed footboard of the hospital bed collided abruptly with the small of the doctor's back. She nearly winced, her hand slapping over her mouth to stifle her cry of shock and—more importantly—horror. Her eyes were wide, painfully stretched in her terror.

She wasn't sure was frightened her more…what she saw on Iris' face, or the smile that curled her dark lips as she witnessed the doctor's reaction.

"Like it?" she whispered, her voice more of a hiss—lower and darker than before. It was a tone that had never been heard before, and Joan wished more than anything that Iris wouldn't talk in that tone, that she wouldn't smile like that. Long fingers reached up, gesturing to the horrible scarring that was etched into her skin, "It was a birthday present from Maria—a birthday present, you see. Maria said she couldn't _stand_ having her own child see past the little façade of cosmetic surgery and makeup and deceit that she put on for the rest of the world. Maria couldn't handle seeing herself—the true her, the ugly and distorted bitch she was—not in the mirror, and not in her little girl's eyes. No, no, no…that wasn't good. That wasn't allowed. And so…" a quiet sigh, "Maria called little Iris into the kitchen on her birthday—number seven—and she had all these chemicals…and a very nasty-looking syringe," three long fingers drifted over to the small surgical tray, wrapping around the very instrument she had just mentioned, and lifting it up to her eye level.

"She grabbed little Iris around the back of the neck, pulling her forward and saying she had a _present_."

Her grip tightened on the needle, her feet bringing her forward, closer to the doctor, "Maria picked up the needle. It was already filled. She pushed Iris' hair out of the way, nice and slow…_motherly_." She practically spat out the word, that dark, wicked tone filled with contempt.

Closer.

"Maria whispered, _Don't be afraid. Fear is for the __**weak**_."

Closer.

"_Don't make a sound…_" the index finger of her free hand lifted to dark lips, pressing to the skin as though to hush a child.

Closer.

"_Everything is going to be alright…for me_."

Closer.

"Maria pulled Iris even closer. Iris couldn't even breathe, let alone cry or scream. But she wanted to scream…she really did." She was less than a foot away now.

"_Just remember…even when you're blind…Mommy's still going to love you. In fact…I'll love you even more now. Because you'll finally learn to keep your mouth __**shut**__._" The needle looked more like a dagger in her fingers.

"Iris was so scared. She was begging—_Mommy, please…I won't say anything…_" Her breath was cold on Joan's skin.

"_You're right…_" the voice lowered to a barely audible hiss, "_Because you won't __**see**__ anything to __**tell**__._"

The doctor was trembling. She could see herself in the girl's eyes—dark with anguish…and pain…and madness.

"And then…Maria took the needle and pierced it through Iris' eye." The syringe plunged down into the wall, mere inches from Joan's head. There was a distinct shattering as the instrument broke, falling pathetically to the floor, irreparable, "The doctors all said how lucky Iris was to survive. But, you see, what they didn't understand…was how _unlucky_ she really was. _Lucky_, the doctors called her. Do you know what the nice little kids at school called her? _Freak_, _Witch_, _Demon_…_**Snake**_…all of those nasty words, pounded into little Iris' head for six years—can you imagine that, Joan? Six years of hell on earth, six years of torture and suffering with no one to save her…and Iris was _lucky_," the venom in her voice forced the doctor back with a terrified whimper, "She was lucky to be called those names, to suffer as she did at the hands of little _whores_ and vile _dogs_."

"Meanwhile," she continued, "Maria escaped with no punishment—didn't even get a fine. She danced away in the wind…and Iris…took it in the neck. Well, the eye, as it were." She added, gesturing to her face again. "And _that_," she hissed, "is what the world did to little Iris, Doctor Joan. That is how this filthy world lost _trust_…_compassion_…and _mercy_."

"Iris…you need help…"

Another smile stretched across her face, her head slowly shaking as she backed away, moving towards the window again, "You can't help little Iris this time, Joan. You can't save her."

"Iris—Iris, what are you—IRIS!"

The last view she had of her former patient was a terrifying smile etched on her scarred and disfigured face. And then she leapt out the window.

* * *

The alleys were always quiet…always peaceful…if you were particularly adept at drowning out the shrill, drunken screeches of preening coeds and the boisterous hollering of plastered college apes, their muscle-warped arms swung aimlessly around one or two (sometimes three) girls, giggling and peppering with kisses at any comment they made, no matter how insipid it was. It was Friday night here in Gotham City; it was Friday night on the University's campus. It was Friday night, and the bars were open all night.

It was enough to make Iris want to throw up again.

All the same, she was grateful that the drunken imbeciles were far too intoxicated with cheap liquor that a young woman, seemingly wandering with no aim or purpose down these corridors and wearing little more than a pair of cropped shorts and camisole, went unnoticed.

Her head hurt, a fierce thrum of pain drumming against her temple, resonating down into the very core of her being. Normally, she might dismiss it as the lights, or even a side effect of leaving the hospital so soon—or more likely, the consequence of falling from a two story window. But she knew there was another reason for her pain. She simply didn't want to acknowledge it.

Iris paused at the entrance to the subway and listened. The usual whirl of the trains whistled through the dark tunnels, but there was little sound otherwise. The students must have already taken their leave, if they were to do so at all.

With one last look around, she made her way down into the shadowed entrance.

* * *

He could still hear the shrieking of the guards as their cries of terror echoed on the wind—yes, let them wail and weep in agonizing terror, when no one would come to their aid. That had been his whole life; whenever he cried out, had anyone tried to comfort him? Or had they merely laughed…increased the force of their blows and the intensity of their cruelty? Let them suffer now…let them all suffer now.

This night—more like morning: it was two fifteen AM—was an experiment, the last in a series of experiments before his grand symphony would begin. Another nightly rehearsal, another run-through of the performance he had created piece by piece, moment after moment—a tremble of anxiety here, the stench of a garbage can there, the sensation of a bruise forming and the paralyzing terror of silence before the storm…black crows and those cold, foul, folded dead hands. His masterpiece, his magnum opus, formed from a life of suffering and enduring the foulness of others. The song of the helpless victim, of the good man that quietly stood by and passively, dully taught…and the song of the sadist, of the creature that ate live hearts and lived on the fear of others.

Soon, it would begin.

But now he sought leave from that familiar shadow, that rustle and flicker of the cape of his nemesis. Where? Out of sight, beneath notice, too mundane to be searched…

He made for the subway.

And it was empty, empty as a tomb, empty as the space between his ribs. The trains ran all night, of course, but who would be coming from the university at a time like this? He slid beneath the barricade and kept close to the walls and the floor, constantly aware of his position and alert for any sudden movement, until he rounded the corner and sought out a dark place to wait out the Bat.

"What…do we have here?" said a voice like tinted glass. His head spun rapidly to find the source of the noise—a woman was standing off to the side, hidden in the shadows. He knew that voice, found his own voice replying in a tone (not of shock, and it surprised him) of satisfaction.

"Miss DeLaine."

An exposed eye widened as loose strands of hair were brushed from her eyes, "Professor Crane?" she whispered softly, "Is that…you?"

"Why, no, my dear former student," Scarecrow smirked in his mask, advancing on the shadowed woman. "He is here, but not quite at his best at the moment and I'm sure he would not wish for you to see him when he is not fit to properly greet you. I trust I am an acceptable substitute…" He was quite close now, his mind on those skeletal curves and those vivid eyes, that sweet half-musky scent he remembered from her days as a student, from those nights in the asylum. Oh, but these few weeks had been good to her.

"The Scarecrow?" Iris echoed back, quietly, observing him as if he were a particularly fascinating subject. "How very interesting." Oh, she knew him…after all, it was hard to not remember the face that had appeared from oblivion at a nightly football game, a mere week after the professor's banishment, and then stole her away to an abandoned horse track. But what fun was it if you didn't play a game now and then?

"Oh, yes, dear Miss DeLaine. Terribly interesting indeed…but then, you were always very bright and very interested in the darker studies of the human mind, weren't you? Do tell me, would you like to know the true meaning of fear?" His gloves were poised to infect her, his ears ready to receive her screams—he was sure they were beautiful, the most incredible screams of terror possible. He had never heard them before…and he hungered to hear them now.

But her next words took him utterly by surprise.

She looked at him, shrugged nonchalantly, and said, "Sure; why not?"

He blinked for a few long moments, then his smile returned to his face. "Uninterested and utterly unresponsive…how well I remember this from your years, Miss DeLaine. Apparently, Professor Crane conducted his lessons well to you. You have learned quite, quite well…"

"Professor Crane was, and still is, an excellent teacher," she replied calmly, "His lessons, no doubt, cover a slightly different material than previously, I'm sure."

"Oh, be sure they do, dear child," he continued stepping towards her, gloved hand outreached, no longer to frighten, but to invite, "Shall I provide a substitute lesson for you….to demonstrate his new lecture material? As stated before, you were always fascinated by the dark, forbidden paths of the human mind. Would you like the chance to explore those darkened paths…perhaps even in your own mind? I assure you, our lessons will be quite…unforgettable."

She looked at him for a long moment, then slowly nodded, "Perhaps."

"Then, dear Iris," he whispered, speaking her name in a low hiss, nearly seductive in its own right, "Allow me to be your guide…take my hand."

Though it was spoken softly, there was no mistaking the command within his tone. It was a tone she was far too familiar with to be completely disturbed by, which in itself should have prompted her to refuse and walk away. She was certain he would follow, and she would no doubt entice this game of cat and mouse as long as it suited her before ending the game entirely. But tonight, she was in no real mood for that game…this game of push until you broke yourself apart. She was quite tired of them, in fact. Tired of living the life with the heavy mask that was so burdened with society's demands and pressures. It was a thick device, and to remove it required quite a bit of draining effort. Yet for some reason, she felt it easily slide away in the presence of her former mentor. Just as it always had been able to fall away, unwanted and unneeded…he never required such lies from her, only the utmost truth.

Her hand slowly began to lift from her side. Any normal person facing any temptation, by simple human nature, fought wildly against the conflict raging within them, listing pros and cons of their choice before they made their final step. Such a battle did not exist within her; she was merely taking her sweet, idle time to entice him, to create a sense of anxiety and excitement that she could see burning in his masked eyes. He was patient, hand outstretched in calm wait. He knew she would not fight him for long.

Her hand slowly laid into his.

* * *

He would have tugged her into his arms, clenched her against him and brought her out into the dark night air above, damn the Bat and damn the risk. He would have covered her nose and mouth with his sleeve, his arm around her face as if pulled up too high in a headlock, to keep her from accidentally breathing any toxin in but also to keep her close against him, completely in his grasp. He would have found some innocent or not-so-innocent bystander, drug dealer, prostitute, or other denizen of night in Gotham and infected them, let them writhe and scream and claw at them, just to watch her reaction, to watch her head tilt slightly and eyes rove over the sight, as if taking mental notes to add to her books later. He would have liked to run from the crime with her, pull her into some dark alley to wait out the discovery and search, invite her to offer her opinion and critique his work, invite her to his masterwork to observe by his side, not to endure the rightful torture of the lazy, vain elite, but to watch him, to make him feel her eyes on him, to make him feel her attention focused on him as he conducted his master symphony.

But a train came blasting up to them in a fury of light and wind, whipping her hair wildly around her head. He saw the curse in her eyes and it pleased him, but his body responded more appropriately than his brain upon seeing the few passengers in the car. He leapt away from her, slithering and sprinting until he was outside in the air once more, only a matter of seconds separating the experience of her hand in his and the taste of lonely night.

Would she follow him? It was a good question, and he waited a few moment, ears vying for the sound of her footsteps on the stairwell leading up from the underground.

It was all too evident that he was waiting for her. Her eyes caught details that others passed by, dismissed for the greater worries of their hypocritical lives; she could see his shadow, long and spindly, stretching across the cold grey walls of the subway station. She paused, not out of fear or true concern, but out of considering her own curiosity of what it would be like to observe this darker side of him. She had already witnessed it a few times; she suspected he had permitted the Scarecrow to emerge during the fiery heat of their passion, locked away in the secrecy of his office, her dorm room, and on rare occasion, his private residence. What would this dark creature prove to be as a teacher, a mentor?

Well, there was only one way to find out.

She slowly ascended the staircase, her footsteps would have been inaudible to the natural human ear, but his senses were clearly hyped and expertly sensitive. She knew he could hear her follow; she felt his heart race ever so slightly in response, knowing that she, his student, was following him. Not mindlessly like a brute animal, whipped into submission, but a free willed creature who desired to know his world.

She stepped up onto the platform that would, around the next corner, spill out onto the streets…out into light and public view. The night air bit at the bare skin that was not covered with bandages. He had not asked…but she was certain he would before the night faded to daylight. He was a curious creature by nature. Just as she was…the creature that he knew her as—knew her better than anyone else in this world.

She had no interest in placing her mask on once again for society's approval. She opted to remain here in the dark a little while longer.

She saw no sign of him; perhaps he had retreated for the night. At any rate, the darkness was a much more pleasant place to reside, unlike the suffocating masses that encroached upon her privacy, her feelings, and her life until she locked them away so well and nearly forgot who she was.

She hated feeling like that. It was a branch of loneliness that she had ceased to welcome since she met Jonathan Crane. That feeling—or rather all those feelings—had been suppressed, locked up and pushed into exile when he had left the university. When he had left her…had he done the same again?

A gloved hand swept around from behind, clasping tightly, securely over her mouth.


	21. Taming the Tiger

"_I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity."_

_~ Edgar Allen Poe_

Chapter 21: Taming the Tiger

Iris was surprised, but only gasped—she was not the sort to cry out, as she found it somewhat melodramatic. If anything, she relaxed once she was in his arms, calmed by the realization that he had not abandoned her, had not wrenched them apart so soon after they had been reunited.

"You are a most inquisitive young woman," Scarecrow's gravelly voice purred into her ear, his body alive with electric pleasure at the sensation of holding his creature once more, this woman he had begun to love when he was banished from the University—perhaps even before then, who could really know? "It's very attractive, but very dangerous…curiosity killed the cat and such." He slowly removed his hand from her face so that it stayed before her, the distance between skin and fabric a matter of millimeters.

"Satisfaction brought it back, Scarecrow." He chuckled and began to lead her to a darkened alley, eager to hunt down some game to poach for her pleasure, amusement, and education. Absurdly, he wanted to impress her with his power, with his ingenious invention and his steady nerves, with his daring and his cunning. He wanted to see admiration and respect in her eyes when she looked at him.

"What manner of prey would best illustrate my dear friend's new interest, do you think? Should I perhaps draw some pompous and muscle-bound Pantagruel into our midst, to prove conclusively that brain defeats brawn? Or should I select for your pleasure the finest of our city's streetwalkers, that we might remind this den of sin of the importance of virtue, taste, and modesty? How do you learn best, Miss DeLaine? By viewing your enemies come crashing down in bawling broken pieces, or by watching your rivals cooked and served to you on a silver plate…not, mind you, that anyone could compare." Oh, he was practically purring now, but he couldn't help himself. It felt so good to have the attention of a creature such as Iris DeLaine fixed upon him once again, and he wanted to show her how much he enjoyed her company, for he could not see himself telling her in so many words. It was cause for celebration and finally, finally, someone worth having had come to the party.

He had weeks—no, _years_ to make up for, after all.

"Please, sir," she said calmly, resting her thin frame up against the alley wall, cool brick meeting equally cool flesh, "You mustn't speak of me as a friend…such intimacy would not be acceptable in the natural setting of teacher and student."

"You are hardly one to speak of natural settings and what is or is not acceptable, Miss DeLaine," he replied, sounding anything but displeased with her, "If memory serves, which I assure you it does, was it not your rather…inappropriate influence that began a relationship with your professor that sparked such a scandal amongst Gotham University's elite?"

"I made no attempt to hide my desires," she replied calmly, "Professor Crane was capable of stopping me at any time. He did not."

The burlap mask twisted into a cold smile, "Of course he did not. After all…" a gloved finger trimmed over the scope of exposed skin shown over her black camisole, down to her left hand, which twitched ever so slightly, "How could he resist that which was so sweetly offering itself to him? No man has ever attempted to surpass such temptation and succeed."

Her eyes narrowed for a long moment, "And such weakness is one such item that men pride themselves on. It is the reason for the destruction of marriages and families. Professor Crane knew how much I despised such weakness. I'd like to think, as I have for so long, that my professor did not succumb to matters of the flesh, but to deeper matters which are so utterly absent in the minds of other men when approached by a woman who is alluring to them."

"You can believe whatever you so wish, Miss DeLaine. Therein lies the benefits of human free will—the ability to believe even the most utterly implausible of lies. You, Miss DeLaine, are surely no stranger to such things, if the things you and the professor discussed in the secrecy of his office are any indication of your past."

She stiffened slightly and made the obvious attempt to move away, only to find his hand press to her shoulder, push her into the wall. Her eyes slowly traveled back to his masked face, "Let me go."

"No," he answered calmly, "I'm afraid you'll find I am not as…lenient with you as the good professor was. Now that I have you, I do not intend to release you until our lesson has been completed. And perhaps…that lesson should take an alternate course of action."

"After all…" he continued, masked faced close, so close to her neck. He could hear her pulse increase to a nearly erratic pace, "It has been several weeks, Miss DeLaine. Physically, those weeks have been good to you. However, there are multiple injuries that have no doubt been imposed upon you by this _society_. Fortunately, those are mistakes easily rectified. You asked Professor Crane to fix such imperfections once, did you not, Miss DeLaine? And you will permit me to do the same…won't you?" it was not a question, but a statement of hard, immovable fact.

* * *

Could there be any other answer?

She thought of the life she had now, the comfort and ease of mediocrity, the stability of a life unremarkable, of talent unexplored, of future prospects unattractive. Would she find refuge and growth in the arms of this man, this man sliced in half, part of him known to her for years, part of him hidden and subconscious, the whole of him more familiar than her own reflection? Would she trust him and rely on him as she once had?

"I give you one night, Scarecrow," Iris said quietly, looking through the holes in the mask to stare at those black eyes she knew so well. "One night to show me what my professor studies now." she knew perfectly well what he _studied_ now, but her pride would not be so easily swayed. He would have to earn her favor if he wanted it so badly. "If I like what I see…I'll watch you, I'll wait for another lesson. But if I turn away, I'm turning away. You may not wish to see me go at dawn…but I will. And if you try to keep me, I'll retreat so far away from you that you'll never see me again. And you know I can do it—if society has gifted me one thing, it is numbness. I'll turn it on you and shut my mind from you completely, if you force me."

* * *

Oh, she was lovely when she was calculating. Still so cold, so clinical, so convinced she had him. Delicious. He was a little intimidated, a little if she could do all that she claimed, she did indeed have a revenge in mind for him that would devastate him. But he could work with this…there was material here. A foot in the door was all he needed, to night. So what was a lie, here or there, if it ensured more of her presence?

"You are wise, Miss DeLaine, to move slowly and with the greatest caution. One night, if you will permit it—and I pledge to show you all. What do you wish to see…where shall we start?"

"Are you not the professor?" she spoke calmly and smoothly, "A student is not her own teacher. Let the professor tell me what is to be learned, and where we shall begin with such lessons."

"Cleverness and well said, as always," he said, hiding his glee at her acceptance of the lessons he held in store for her, "I think, my dear….we shall begin with the specimen who has so opportunistically wandered into our midst. Now, come here…a bit closer to see properly…" his gloved hands rested demurely upon her angular shoulders, directing her line of vision with a small gesture, "You see that one, the brutish ape who has just stumbled from the nearby bar? Does he not appear…_familiar_ to you, Miss DeLaine."

He knew his student was a calm and nearly emotionless person, but there were some memories which could not be repressed, no matter the time that had passed and the effort put into making such a reality. He could feel her stiffen under his fingers; the memories stirred by the young man's (_man_ being used quite loosely) appearance emitting such burning embers of rage within her…oh, he drank it all in. He recalled her anguish, her humiliation, and her rage at this creature.

"Walters, isn't it, Miss DeLaine? Jimmy Walters…a name which I'm quite certain you are far too familiar with, though it has been a while, hasn't it? Do you suppose he recalls what he did to you that night, Miss DeLaine?" his voice lowered in her ear, a soft and comforting seduction, "I have not forgotten…I could never forget the look in your eyes when you came to me…when you fell into my arms, stripped entirely of your pride…the bruises, the cuts…do you remember them, Miss DeLaine? Do you recall the agony you felt when he hit you? The way your voice broke and pleaded with him as you tried to push him away? Do you remember how…_scared_ you were? How he laughed and spit upon the terror in your eyes? Wouldn't you like to see that fear in his? Perhaps at one time you believed him to be fearless—I promise you, this lesson will show you that _none_ in this world are fearless. I can give you the fear in his eyes…the agony that will fill his voice as he begs for mercy…just like you did. Remember the looks of all those people, surrounding you. He didn't even have the graces to do it in private, did he? Oh no…no, he shattered you in public, in the view of all those people…and what did they do? They laughed, didn't they, Iris? They laughed and cheered him on over your tears, your screams for mercy and help. They did nothing to save you, as you had done nothing to deserve it. But Professor Crane healed you, didn't he? Yes…yes, he did…and now Scarecrow will heal you. I will show you how to provoke that terror, that agony in his eyes…he'll wriggle and writhe like a worm skewered upon a hook, my sweet…his voice will grow hoarse with his horror, with his screams for help that none will answer…"

Her hand, almost unconscious of its actions, drifted up to meet his face as she stared at the Walters animal, Scarecrow's voice in her ear and Scarecrow's head beside hers, close, close and conspiring. Iris felt the roughness of the burlap under her fingers as she stroked his chin, petting him almost the way a mistress would pet her faithful feline, gentle, indulgent, in control. He was willingly a tool for her to use, a living weapon that would consent to no one but would gratefully indulge her, restore her to her rightful place; he could bring her satisfaction.

"We can watch him as he begs for mercy…perhaps I will have him beg you for mercy, mercy we know he does not deserve. He does not repent his cruelty…but we can force him to do so. I wish to see you play the role you were destined to play—that of the wrathful, triumphant goddess, the valkyrie, chooser of the slain, standing above a contemptuous mortal that dared to insult you. I would see you spitting upon his terror in return, taking back from him what he had stolen. Reclaim your pride and your bravery from him, Iris. Make him pay. They sometimes tear their own eyes out to escape the sight of their fears, my dear one…would you enjoy watching that, watching him destroy himself in helpless terror, in the depths of a hell he had not known truly existed?"

Still her fingers petted, gentle, hinting at power but never outright stating anything, perhaps unaware of her position in the current situation. He felt like a tiger on a thin leash, claws and teeth ready to be bloodied in the quest to cause pain to another creature that had harmed this woman.

"Break him," she said, dark and low and rich. "I want to see him in pain…I want to watch him gut himself to escape, gnaw through his own limbs to run away. I want to have him at my feet, promising anything, anything for my forgiveness, for my charity. I want despair and agony in his eyes when I deny him it. I want his regret, Scarecrow; bring me his regret that he ever thought to do such a thing to me. I want him dominated, I want him made a slave. I want him to die tonight, with a scream in his throat. I want him to experience terrors which have never even come to the surface—I want them listed, I want to hear them screamed clearly. I want him to die humiliated, used, a whore for his demons to abuse. I want him to think of the joys he will never have, of the foul wrongs he did others; he must feel his guilt, Scarecrow. Can you do all that?"

Oh, she was brilliant, she was _brilliant_—the lust for revenge in her voice aroused him madly, but he had no desire for physical contact now. He wanted to satisfy her, to bring her a trophy kill for her to relish. He wanted to watch her take her rightful vengeance; he wanted to be the one to make it possible.

"I can, Iris. I will. You will understand so much, at the end of this night." And he took her by the hand, escorting her like a lady to watch and participate in a grand, grand game.

* * *

The walk was little more than a few feet, but the moments seemed to pass through with the slowness of eternity. Her power was another mask, a mask of the undeniable arousal she felt in his mere presence. It was just like then…when their meetings were either by chance, within the confines of the classroom, or under the cover of darkness, when they could finally be together…alone. The softest caress sent her nerves wild, afire with liquid heat…the quietest whisper numbed all other senses save the ability to feel excruciating pleasure. And now it was heightened…heightened to the point of near madness. Physical contact must wait, that she knew, but the patience she was required to possess was simply maddening in itself. The pleasures of the flesh he had given her as a professor had been enough…would they continue to be enough satisfaction now? Now that he had become a man who drank in the sinful delight of insanity and darkness—who _**thrived**_ in it—would there be a greater pleasure waiting for her should she succumb to the maddening pressure building within her?

But of even greater importance….would he accept her?

Did he even have a place for her within his new world? She was little more than a fragment of the past he had no doubt eagerly shattered apart before delving into his future. Such pieces should remain lying upon the floor of the past, not dredged up to bother him. This night would pass soon enough, and then their paths would part again…he would live out his life of freedom—oh, such wondrous freedom that she longed so desperately for…but it was his life. And there was no place for her any longer in his world. He would always belong in hers…but she would not ever belong to his.

But, she decided with sudden, fierce determination, but she would take this gift he offered her. She would suck the marrow out of this kill he would make for her, this sacrifice to honor the closeness they had once had. If he would accept her, if he would allow her into his bed despite the distance they endured now, if he would permit it…she would thoroughly thank him for his gift.

They approached their target in a circular fashion, staying to the shadows, haunting the unsuspecting imbecile's steps. Iris caught the scent of his sweat and nearly gagged—good God, she remembered that smell, and it brought back one hundred horrible nightmares, the thousand scars of shame she bore from that evening that cut her open and stole something vital from her. She could feel the burlap of her companion's clothing beneath her skin, and it calmed her slightly, but she was still alive and electric with fury and fear.

"There he is, Miss DeLaine," Scarecrow whispered to her, and she was too sharp to shudder. "Do you want to watch him understand fear?"

"Yes, Scarecrow. Yes. Make him pay me back." Her words were a breath, nothing more, but if she had screamed it from the rooftops in a command as stern as that of some ancient goddess, he would not have more willingly obeyed. To hear his name from her lips, in such a tone of ragged desire…He was going to bring her this pleasure—he was going to press this fool to the dirt beneath her, bring this defiler to worship at the only thing he held sacred, make a sacrifice of cruelty and ignorance to a woman who truly deserved…

He held her palm, open-faced, in his, as he brought her before her tormentor.

* * *

"What the hell….what do you want, skeleton?" the brute slurred, the stench of alcohol on his breath making her ill.

"I see you remember me," she said softly, "How reassuring. It will make this all the more satisfying…"

"Get out of my way, you walking piece of—AGH!" he yelped non-too quietly as his wrist was caught in a vice grip, complete with piercing nails, when he attempted to shove her out of the way.

"I would ask you if your mother ever taught you the proper etiquette around a lady, Walters," she said calmly, a cold smile in her eyes, on her lips as she observed him trying to wriggle out of her grip, "But seeing as I've already tasted that putrid answer myself, I don't need to even ask. You **do** remember, don't you, Jimmy boy? You remember that night?"

"You had it coming—!" he yelped again as her grip tightened.

"_Had it coming_? By what, happening to walk out of the library at the same time you and your imbecilic friends were stumbling out of a frat party? That was motive enough for you to strip me, hit me until I couldn't breathe, give me injuries that took months to heal _physically_, let alone the _emotional_ scars? That was your motive?"

He could hear the fury building in her voice, and knew she was almost ready. Not quite yet, but very, very nearly…just a little more time, and she would be ready to unleash his powerful drug upon this animal's mind. Just a little, little more…

"Leggo of me, bitch!"

"Bitch?" her eyes hardened to ice crystals, "_**Bitch**_? I'll give you bitch, you filthy animal. **You** will be the bitch. You will learn what it's like to be stripped of all that you are, cold and fast, and no one is there to hear your screams, your cries for mercy. You will taste that terror, the anguish, you pig. I'll see you thrash about, wriggling and writhing like the spineless cretin you are! I'll make you beg for mercy, just like you made me!"

The tiger was released from its leash. A soft red dust cloud was emitted into the air, engulfing the pig's agape mouth. Scarecrow knew his flower would not be affected by it. Her rage and hatred would never be pushed aside for fear.

"Writhe for me, slut. Let me see you in agony—give me back what you stole!" Iris hissed, dropping his hand as though disgusted to have ever touched his skin. The results were instantaneous, and she felt her body responding very positively to the agony of the animal before her.

He looked around himself frantically, his breath coming in pants, gasps, growing into soft moans, high whimpers, yelps, slowly into screams, shrieks of terror. Walters dropped to his knees and covered his head, shrieking aloud, quaking and shaking all over, sweat breaking out over his skin. He convulsed as if having a seizure for a moment, and then stopped, breathing, panting. In seconds, he began freshly twisting, tearing at his abdomen, bent double in imagined pain, screaming, screaming to the heavens for help that would not come.

"Oh my God, oh my God! Get them off me, please, they're all over me, they're inside me, please, please!"

"Tell me what they are," Iris whispered, watching. She nearly shivered. This was so wrong…so twisted and cruel…

And so _delicious_.

"Oh God, can't you see? The rats, the rats-they're coming out of me…out of this hole in me!" He gestured to his stomach and Scarecrow smirked at the image of bloody rats escaping from inside the body of this monster, gnawing at him as he screamed. "How did this happen? Why am I alive? Oh, God, make them stop, make them stop!"

"Do you like this, Walters? How does it feel? This is how you made me feel, all those years ago…and I deserved it? Can anyone deserve this…anyone but you?"

Another nightmare had taken over him, and he curled in the fetal position, whimpering as tears coursed down his face. Iris drew closer to observe, and suddenly caught a wretched stench. She laughed out loud.

"You just pissed yourself, didn't you? You disgusting creature! You shat yourself too! In front of me, in front of the world you spent your life tormenting, you soiled yourself, just when I thought you couldn't be any filthier! You pig, you scum, you monster! You foul, foul, ugly, inhumane beast!" Iris was nearly bent double with laughter, suddenly overwhelmed with wonderfully twisted delight at the humiliation and terror of her tormentor. "Look at me! Look up at me and tell me how disgusting you are! Look up at me; see how I'm above you, how I've survived! Give back to me what you stole! Better yet: look at yourself. Look at how low and how revolting you are. See yourself honestly, for the first time. Isn't it too horrible? Look deep inside yourself…look at your life…look where you are now, in front of me, your victim, defiling yourself. And then, look up at me…look up at me and tell me how low and how pathetic and how disgusting you are."

Leaning against the side of the alleyway, Scarecrow watched Iris in her triumph with a small, fond smile. Such a lovely tormentor she was…she was so good at revenge, almost as good as he. It was nice to watch her playing with her toy.

"I…I'm disgusting, revolting!" the words were little less than an absolute howl of misery, "Pathetic! Lowest of the low! God, I'll say anything you want! I'll confess to anything, anything at all, just for God's sake, have mercy!"

"Mercy?" she repeated, "_**Mercy**_? Where was your sense of that pretty word when I needed it, you filth? Where was that pretty thing when I was screaming for it? And God? Don't waste your breath on God…he has no time or use for garbage like you…"

"PLEASE! Oh, god, oh GOD! Then let me die!"

"Die?" she repeated, kneeling down beside him, her voice little more than a venomous hiss, "Die? Oh no, Walters…you won't die. Perhaps you will eventually, when you've ripped yourself apart with your own bare hands to rid yourself of your own defilement, in the height of your terror, but you wish for me to kill you, to end your suffering? Do you know how close I came to ending my life? And so many opportunities came for me to do just that after you defiled me. And I thought about doing it…so many, many times. I didn't, Walters, because I am not a coward. But you are, which is why I know in a matter of the hour, you will end your own life. I would stay here and observe it, God knows I'd love to watch you rip yourself apart, but you aren't worthy of an audience. I'll simply suffice for reading about it tomorrow in the paper…when they describe you as some pathetic drug addict. More noble than you deserve, frankly…but we can't have all our wishes come true, can we? Even though you deserve to be nameless, merely a ragged bum without a name or a face…something the police will throw aside without a real care in this world. Maybe I'll get my wish for that, what do you think? Although…a bum has more class than you. I hope they won't get the wrong idea about you, thinking you deserve some grand investigation and proper funeral. Maybe you'll destroy yourself so much they won't be able to recognize you. I think that would be most fitting, don't you? At last, some ideal sense of justice. Farewell, Jimmy Walters…farewell…"

"NO! No, don't leave me! DON'T LEAVE ME!"

His voice trailed off in a series of howls, raucous screams and shrieks. She breathed it in, let the sounds echo in her ears, carve their memory into her mind permanently. It was music, simple and clear…music. She did not return immediately to Scarecrow, but veered off to the right, resting against the alley wall, eyes closing for a moment. She was, no other word for it, painfully excited…the merest touch from him would heighten that excitement to a state of arousal which she had never before conceived to be even slightly possible…

His hand rested on her shoulder.

* * *

She threw herself at him. There was no other way to describe it. She simply hurled herself against him, forcing him onto the ground, ripping the mask from his face and shoving her tongue down his throat. Her nails dug into his skin through the rough fabric of his clothing and his hands flew up to her sides, trying to clench against her, wondering, inanely, if she would bruise.

Iris embraced him, rubbing her hips against him with a desperate passion, her tongue running in and out of his mouth as she alternately used it to form words and to kiss him, the screams of her victim still serenading them.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," she panted into his mouth, rutting her hips as if close enough to her peak already that this stimulation alone would force her over the edge. "It was luscious; it was unbelievable, it was more than everything, thank you, Scarecrow, thank you, Jonathan…"

The combined sensation of her tongue flitting in and out of his mouth, running against his own; her hips thrusting against his with such reckless abandon; the feel of her nails digging into his clothed flesh; and the overall realization that she was pressed to him, bodies stretched out against each other's, with their screeching victim serenading them mere feet away….it was all enough to make his mind implode from the sinful pleasure. And then she said it.

"Thank you, Jonathan…"

Jonathan…she called him Jonathan…only she could ever call the Scarecrow by his true name, his birth name….only she had ever been given such a privilege and she knew it. He might even say she was exploiting her personal privileges, testing him to see if he would punish her, but the utter and absolute ecstasy with which she gasped his name and title, consecutively after each other, told him otherwise. She was in need…in need of him, as she had always been. She wanted him to give her another lesson…a lesson that she could never learn elsewhere. She wanted to be exposed to his darkness…she wanted him to unleash it all upon her, to infect her soul with his sins…oh, by God…she was silently beseeching him to ravage her completely, to allow the roaring monster within his body to be released from his cage and set upon her. Oh, he wanted her. He had been deprived of her for far, far too long. She was perfection, angel and demon, savior and muse, student and equal…those incompetent fools, those bastards—they had ripped them apart, wrenched her from his arms, forced him away before he could speak any final words to her. He well recalled it, that horrid night…for all this time, his nights had been plagued with the look on her face as he was hauled away from her, screaming out her name, imploring her to never, ever forget him…

And she had not! Damn those fools all to the deepest pits of hell, she had not forgotten him! For she had followed him, come to him willingly, listened to his lesson with such rapt attention and fascination…and now here they were, bodies pressed desperately together…God and this world be damned, he needed her!

"Iris!" he growled, and flipped her over, his tongue mirroring in her mouth her actions within him. His hands tore at her shorts—a scrap of clothing that hid her magnificent body from his hungry gaze—positively ripped them apart, one hand slipping inside to touch her as his other hand worked on his own trousers. His long, dexterous fingers probed, caressed, massaged her through the thin fabric of her underwear, and he swallowed her shaky gasp and whimper, unable to suppress a smile at her obvious need.

"You want this, don't you?" he asked, almost rhetorical but not quite. "Oh, you desperately need this, don't you, Iris? Have you missed my hands upon you, inside you? I have missed touching you this way, my dear—it has been too long, hasn't it?"

"Too long, too, too long," she whispered back, pressing against his hand needily. "Do it, Jonathan. Take me. Take me back, take me away from this world. Make me yours again—I've missed you, I want you, I need you, forever. I don't want you to tease me, not now…just do it, right now, before you get taken away from me again. Do it, while I can still hear him screaming…"

He was more than happy to comply. He pulled her clothing (what was still intact) to her ankles and did away with his own garments, at least to pulling them down to the knee. He was ready for her, and she for him, as his fingers had discovered to his delight. He wasted no time, but slipped within the circle of her legs and her clothing and, hips moving forward even as he leaned down to kiss her, pushed inside of her once again.

The calm before the storm rushed over her senses, letting her release a shuddering breath of sheer delight, sinful delight though it might have been. She could hardly contain herself…he was inside her again. The hard, hot length of his pleasure buried so deep, securely within her, completing the unity which had been stripped from them. The world melted away to secure only her half-stripped body lying on cool concrete, his nearly skeletal body secured firmly between her thighs, rocking, thrusting against her, her hips jerking back to meet his rhythm with poorly disguised need…and the ever erotic screams and shrieks of their victim echoing through both ears. She was panting, her breath hot even on her own skin. She vaguely wondered if she was flushed, but such a curiosity faded away quickly. She had little time to consider such matters, not when their moment would pass away far too soon.

His rhythm secured against, inside her, Scarecrow let a smile twist his lips as he heard a gasp from his mate beneath him, caused by his fingers teasing her subtle curves. His grin widened as he observed her body reacting to his tease, those sweet nubs stiffening beneath his touch. Two fingers hooked around the hem, tugging upward until her undergarment was revealed. A soft growl escaped his lips, "You wear too many clothes…" he scolded with a soft hiss.

"So…do something about it…" she managed to say, a challenge in her tone.

"Disrespectful," he growled, the sharp points of his gloves no longer content to simply lift and push aside. In one swift movement, he shredded the thin strap connecting the cups of her bra, and parted them, finally revealing her breasts to him. He leaned down and took one nipple in his mouth, treating it to a hard suck and a bite just barely hard enough to hurt.

"_Jonathan_!" the woman beneath him screamed, hips bucking wildly as he repeated the treatment on the other breast. Iris threw herself into a fresh passion, gasping aloud when a particularly agonized wail, followed by a wet, ghastly "_shlup_", reached her ears. She could only _imagine_ what her former torturer was doing to himself in his agony, and that sole thought sent a fresh spark of pleasure and lust straight through her. She dug her nails into her lover's shoulders and brought him back, forth, in, out, deeper—harder, desperate for the release she knew what coming but wishing to make this last forever, to trap this beautiful moment in a piece of amber and exist forever within it.

She couldn't do that, but she could make sure this was the most incredible, most erotic, and most satisfying night they'd ever had. She forced him onto his back, suddenly, and went to work above him, hips jerking up and down rapidly, oblivious even to the sounds that were escaping her mouth, ears deaf to everything but her lover's voice and the wails of her victim—her very first.

He was surprised by the sudden show of dominance, and ordinarily, he wouldn't have allowed it—but she was a conqueror queen triumphant, and he would not deprive her of her rights tonight. Oh, his Iris was such a sweet virgin: she had come to him as a virgin to the pleasures of the flesh, and tonight she had returned to him as a virgin to the pleasures of the kill, to the pleasures of absolute poetic justice. How he loved to educate her, introduce her to worlds and delights she had never before known…she was the perfect student, the perfect muse, the perfect companion. And she was _his_.

"I have…a confession, my dear student," he managed to gasp out, his clawed hands holding onto her narrow hips, "A confession which might anger you in some small degree, but you will pardon your teacher his transgression for what he will tell you. You…you spoke of only staying one night with me, to learn all that can be learned from me. I have no intention of letting this end with dawn's light—I never have any such intention. Of course, I told you that I would, but that was little more than a lie to get me closer to my goal. You, Iris, you are that goal—to keep you well past this night, to hold you and never release you until I deem it suitable. I will not let you go tonight, Iris. You belong to me, and I will spend this entire night and into the morning's light reminding you of such! I won't let you go, Iris…never. And you don't want me to let you go, do you…?"

Her gasp was nearly a wail as a single finger sought out her core, "Yes, my pet….yes….whimper, wail, beg for me….yes, that's right…" his wrist moved slowly in accordance with the light, taunting motions of his finger, "Make those noises for me….make them, make them, Iris. Don't hide them from me…let go. I want to hear your sweet voice…I want to hear it…yes…."

"Professor—"

"Scarecrow, my pet." He said calmly, finger moving lazily as it caresses her hyper-sensitive nerves, "Let's not forget our manners now. That will displease your Scarecrow, and we wouldn't want that, would we?"

"N…No, Scarecrow…no….just…just please…"

"Oh, Iris…my Iris, my sin, my goddess…I've forced the most delicious screams and pleas from the mouths of my victims, but nothing compares to the passionate pleas I'm coaxing from you. Can you feel what you're doing to me?" his hips jerked tauntingly against hers, earning a weak whine, "Yes, you can, can't you, Iris? You can feel what you're doing to your Scarecrow. Even when he is so deep inside you, you still infect him with such hot pleasure. And you love it, don't you? Feel it all, Iris… feel it…that's my good girl…"

Dying, dying: she had to be dying, slowly. What else could be so amazing, so incredible and inescapable as this but death? She felt her lungs futilely grasping for air, felt her body convulse as if beyond her control, felt her body sing with endorphins. The firm thrust of their bodies together jarred her injuries; she thought she could feel blood seep down her arms and legs beneath the bandages. The stitches on her stomach protested fiercely to her actions, but they were firm, strong. They would not give yet. No, they would not allow her to bleed out. She would suffer in sharp, piercing pain, and she was to love it. She _did_ love it. There was no clear line anymore—pain and pleasure were mingled, twisted and blurred together, making her body sing and shriek all at once. She was dying, and her Scarecrow was killing her, calling her his muse, his sin, his goddess, testing the immortality of her if she truly was any of these things. Oh, and if he could kill her this wonderfully, she would happily beg for death.

"Jonathan," she keened breathlessly, in unison with a yelping whimper from her victim. "Oh, Jonathan! Please, please, Scarecrow…set me afire…make me blaze! You've done so much…so much for me tonight. Please complete it…complete me!"

"I already do, my sweet creature. I fill all your emptiness, don't I? When you are with me, there are no more holes, no gaping pains—just me, and you, together and complete. Isn't that right, Iris?"

"Yes…yes…oh, Jonathan…oh, Scarecrow…you're going to make me…"

"Your Scarecrow wishes to hear your lovely song, my dear. You will sing for him, won't you? You'll open that perfect mouth and let out a sound for him alone. Anything you give me I will take, Iris. And I want you to return the favor."

"Yes. I will, I will…please, Jonathan…please! Oh, my God…it's too much, it's too…"

"Oh, no, my lady dear. It's not enough…not if you can still speak. Can't you feel everything I'm doing to you, Iris? Can't you feel me, as you bring into you and out of you, over and over again? Can't you feel what I'm doing to you? I want you to be _out of your mind_, Iris—I want you carried away by lust and pleasure. I'm claiming you for my own, as I will claim you so many more times this night…I claim your pleasure for my own, that I am the one who makes you feel this way."

"Yes! Yes, you…only you…Jonathan…" She was whimpering now, desperate and pining and beautiful.

"Let me see the fruits of our labors, my precious one…let me see you in your raptures…"

"Jonathan…please…I cannot—"

"You will not," he interjected calmly but firmly, "You will not come, Iris, not until I permit it. Do not disobey, you will displease your Scarecrow. Do as I say…don't fight, me…" he added at her frustrated whine, "Don't fight, Iris…it will feel so much better if you just do as I say. That's right…here…" a loud whimper from her lips as his finger was joined by another, probing and exploring, "See? That is your reward for doing as I say…it feels good, doesn't it? Oh, no, no, no…" he cooed, pressing his unoccupied fingers to her lips, "No need to speak, Iris…just make your noises. Don't try to speak, just let your sounds tell me this feels good. Do as you're told, and something wonderful will happen to you…"

Iris swallowed hard. The words were there, but the ability to form them on her tongue and speak them coherently was no longer existent. Her lips parted, allowing a stream of gasps and throated moans to escape, the only word formed being his name. Her fingers, her nails dug into his skin, her skin—anything that she could get a grasp on.

"Such a good little pet you are," he crooned softly, almost leisurely, "So very, very good for Scarecrow. I can hardly wait to see how obedient you are when we are safely tucked away, away from these prying eyes who would dare to observe your beauty. That's right, Iris…I will take you away…away to a place of privacy, where we can be fully engulfed in the darkness of our pleasure. I will infect you in every way possible, Iris…infect you, let you be consumed with the darkness of pleasure, of insanity…and you'd like that, wouldn't you, Iris? Would you like Scarecrow to do that to you? Would you like for Scarecrow to show you many, many more lessons? Would you like to taste the kind of pleasure he will drown you in? You want to drown, don't you, Iris? You want to drown, to be suffocated with my pleasure…and you will get your wish."

"But for now, we will be content with what lies before us, won't we?" he continued, fingers continuing to tease, "Oh, my sweet, you are well past the point of words, aren't you? I can see it in your clouded eyes, in the way your limbs are jerking, pleading silently. But you cannot quite come yet, can you? Such a good girl, yes you are…you won't come until Scarecrow tells you to….oh, such an obedient little child. Perhaps Scarecrow should reward you for such good behavior…what would you like for him to do? Try to speak, child, if you can….do you need me to cease my touches? I think I ought to….seeing as you can't speak otherwise….." his hand slowly started to draw away.

"N…no!" she managed, tilting her hips as if to follow his hand. He shushed her, his unoccupied hand petting her hip.

"But you've just proven my point, haven't you? As soon as I move my fingers out of you, your words are as clear as a bell. Such a vulnerable little thing you are…so wanton and desperate. You can be shattered with the merest touch, can't you…oh, but not just any touch will do. It must be the touch of your Scarecrow, mustn't it…only he knows just where to look. Now tell me, Iris…what would you like your reward to be? What would make you know exactly what a good girl you have been to keep yourself from coming when you wanted to so badly."

She panted over him, trying to catch her breath and quiet her trembling, but she could not quite manage it. Instead, she blinked the haze of lust away a bit and stared into his deep black eyes.

"Tell me," he softly commanded; her desires were his to fill, and he wanted to know his next target.

"Make me come, Jonathan," she whispered. "Make that my reward…"

"How would you like to come, Iris?"

She looked down at him, mild confusion evident in her eyes, "How?"

"Yes, Iris, how would you like to come?" he said, thoroughly enjoying her confusion and near innocence, "I can quite easily bring you over the edge with my fingers, seeing as you're enjoying that quite a bit. However…there is another method by which I can make you come…one you've only dreamed of…"

"Scarecrow, I don't understand…"

In response, he sat upright, not enough to upset her position on him, but enough to crane his long neck forward and swipe his tongue over the very top of her heated core.

Her whole body tensed, suddenly, as if too shocked even to move. Her hands gripped fiercely into his shoulders, her only indication of having this incredible, intimate touch at all.

Smirking at her disbelief but determined to draw from her greater pleasures, Scarecrow licked her again, more slowly this time, dragging his moist, limber muscle against his desperate student's most sensitive parts. This time she keened softly, letting out a long, soul-deep breath as he toyed with her, crying out when he suddenly flicked his tongue against her—fire-quick and soft.

"Please…yes, please…" she begged softly, too needy to even speak.

He could hardly suppress the smugness etched into his features entirely, "As you wish, my dear, dear student…do not suppress your sounds. I want to hear them…all of them now."

"AH!" she had never allowed herself to scream like this, but the circumstances were hardly comparable to anything she'd ever experienced before. A steady stream of gasps and quiet screams of intense pleasure escaped her again and again. Her breath tumbled from her parted lips in hot pants; her mind was a cloud of exotic pleasure that was so intense, it was nearly painful. She was shaking, gasping, quivering, whining…a complete writhing, whimpering mess under the onslaught of tongue and the hard length secured inside her. "P…Please…Scarecrow, Professor, Jonathan….I can't…I can't anymore…"

"Can't what?"

"Can't…can't hold back….please…please, Scarecrow, I need to come…."

He looked up at her with no small amusement, "And if I do, Iris? What will you do then? Attempt to gather yourself and walk away, back to the comforts of home? Or will you be a good girl and fall into your Scarecrow's arms, let him lift you away and take you to his bed, where you will be his again and again throughout this night? What is your answer, Iris? Tell me and you will come. Will you leave…or are you going to be a good little girl?"

"I'll be good…I promise I'll be good for you…" sweet God in heaven, the things this man could do to her. The refined and collected young woman was gone, replaced by a child—an innocent creature, helpless without the guidance of the master of her heart and, more importantly, her soul, "I'll be good, Scarecrow…I'll be a good girl…I swear it…"

"Will my good girl do what Scarecrow tells her to do?"

"Yes….yes, she'll do whatever you want her to do, Professor, I promise I will! Just please let me come! Please, please, please, **please** let me come! It hurts….Scarecrow, please, you don't want your student to be in pain….please don't do this to her….it hurts so badly….let me come! I'll be good, I'll be good! I'll be a good, good girl….I'll do whatever Scarecrow tells me to. I'll come to his bed, crawl to it if he so desires; I'll beg him for the privilege of letting him touch me, I'll seek out even the smallest touches, for that will give me such pleasure, as he always gives me. I'll touch you, my professor…I'll touch you however, wherever, as many times as you like…I'll touch with my hands, my mouth…everywhere you want me to touch you, kiss you, lick you. Just let me come…show your Iris how good she's been for you and let her come for you…."

Oh, such words, such noises…he could've come right then and there, flushed as he was with delicious power and pleasure. His proud, beautiful little student—how willing she was, how desperate and eager to do whatever he said, just to get a bit of relief…just to stop the ache he'd put into her. This passionate, wrathful, powerful, brilliant creature was willing to whore herself for him, for the pleasure she needed him to bring to her, and it was incredible…it stoked the fire in him even more, when he thought he could be no greater aroused.

"Yes, Iris…" His voice was a throaty growl, almost animal in tone and texture. "My Iris has been so good for me…so willing and receptive…" he thrust his hips against her and smiled at her needy whine. "So grateful for all that her Scarecrow has shown her…she had been very But he believes that she can do better…can you be an even better girl for me, Iris? Would making you come make you into a very, very good girl, willing to do whatever her professor and her mentor says?"

"It would…I would…I'll be so good if you let me come…so obedient…a good girl, a very, very good little girl…"

"I'm certain you will, Miss DeLaine," he purred, dropping once again to her desperate soft heat and licking determinedly, letting his voice float up to her. "You may come when it's too much for you, Iris, my very good girl…"

She tried to hold on, to give him the pleasure needed…but she only lasted a few more minutes before the combined sensations of his hot desire thrusting, striking such sensitive chords within her—a ruthless, senseless instrument intent on breaking her apart, shattering her with as much effort as it took to break a mirror—and his tongue warm and wet—that cunning and powerful tool with which he turned the strongest of mortals into crawling, whimpers worms, planted the seeds of sweet genius and brilliance into the minds of those who thirsted for his knowledge, and that spoke words, effortlessly, that could shatter a mind and drown his student in sheer ecstasy.

Her head flew back, her neck straining painfully. Black curls, dampened with a thin sheen of sweat, flowed down her back, an ink-stained river streaming against the white of her flesh. Her body arched, bending nearly into a perfect crescent. Her eyes snapped up to the sky—black as her hair, polluted with the grey of the city's smog.

The stars returned her inquisitive gaze with a fierce, blinding glare—testing her. Black sky was drowned in an eruption of silver, stars, moonlight…all blinding her. Her senses were numb, frozen, but the blood rushed white-hot through her veins, searing her nerves, sparking everything into hyper drive. She was cold—frozen to the bone—but her heart beat. Oh, her heart beat violently, demanding to be released from its bony prison and rip through her flesh into his hands, his open and expectant hands. She was flying, flying high and away from this place…away from reason and rules and suffocating demands, but the hard ground digging into her knees and shins anchored her still to earth. Her lips parted, a shriek that could only come from a dying soul forcing its way out, clawing at her vocal chords.

She was dying, and she had never felt more _alive_.

All went dark for a few moments. She heard another scream that was not hers.

It echoed her in head, this sweet scream…she wondered vaguely to whom it belonged, as she slowly came back to herself. Iris found herself lying atop a thin, heaving chest, two spidery, strong hands clenching her waist, a man's desire still inside her. Her own body was shaking, shivering violently as the last waves of pleasure receded from her, leaving her gasping, exhausted, sore, and incredibly, incredibly alive with satisfaction. She had no desire to move at all—all she wanted to do what stay in her place, thinking about screams and savoring the moment.

It occurred to her that she had not heard from Jimmy Walters in quite a bit of time…it would be nice to be the first person to see his sorry corpse. Had the scream belonged to him? She shivered under another push of pleasure: what could he have done to himself? What grisly things might he have tried to end his suffering? She wanted to see, but later…

No, it hadn't had the dullness of tone that the Walters scum had. This voice had been steel-sharp, charged with animal ferocity. This had been a voice that knew, a voice of unspeakable ecstasy, a voice she knew she remembered.

Jonathan had screamed when he came inside her. She trembled, wilting into his hold, as though she could just die and be reborn as his heart.

His body seemed to regain himself before she; Iris soon found herself redressed, though not entirely properly, and lifted into spindly arms that contained surprising strength, head rested upon a narrow shoulder. His mask had been pulled back over his face. "Forgive me, my dear, but Gotham's finest," he spoke the title with bitter disdain, "Approach, and with them is most assuredly an unwelcome guest with the intent to return me to Arkham, and I will not have you wrenched from my arms again," his voice lowered to a soothing murmur as she whimpered wordlessly, fingers clinging childlike to the rough material of his shirt at the mention of his return to the asylum, "Shhh…there, there, Iris…hush, child. I'm not leaving you. Scarecrow won't let you go…no, no…he is far from done with you this night, my sweet child. You will not leave my arms until the sun has taken its place in the skies, and perhaps not even then. We have far too much time to make up for…come, my love."

He walked effortlessly through the alleys and shadows of Gotham, steering them away from any prying eyes, "Forgive me for not granting you the pleasure of seeing your victim's corpse, dear child, but his screams did not go unnoticed in the city, and as I said, I cannot have the police tearing you away. The last time we were forced to endure such a thing…" a violent shudder shook him, and her in his arms, "I hope you did not read the papers, dear Iris…the things they were saying…"

She tried to answer, but all that escaped was a weak, dry sob. Her face buried into his chest, unable to stop crying, but unsure why she was at all.

"You have defended your professor so valiantly, so loyally…" he murmured in her hair, "My sweet student, you do me proud. How I have missed being so near to you….it had done quite serious injury for me to be apart from you for so long, considering how unceremoniously you were ripped from my arms last time. But you're not going anywhere this time, are you, Iris?"

"No." she whimpered, pressing against him, "No, Scarecrow…I'm not going anywhere…I won't leave you….I promised I would be good, and I will be…I'll be a good little girl for you….so, so very good…I promise…."

He smiled beneath the mask. "Yes, of course, my dear girl…my very good girl…"

"Yes…" she breathed into his skin, his very being, "I am yours…"


	22. Downward Spiral

"_Lying is done with words and also with silence."_

_~ Adrienne Rich_

Chapter 22 – Downward Spiral

"_You have defended your professor so valiantly, so loyally…" he murmured in her hair, "My sweet student, you do me proud. How I have missed being so near to you….it had done quite serious injury for me to be apart from you for so long, considering how unceremoniously you were ripped from my arms last time. But you're not going anywhere this time, are you, Iris?"_

"_No." she whimpered, pressing against him, "No, Scarecrow…I'm not going anywhere…I won't leave you….I promised I would be good, and I will be…I'll be a good little girl for you….so, so very good…I promise…."_

_He smiled beneath the mask. "Yes, of course, my dear girl…my very good girl…"_

"_Yes…" she breathed into his skin, his very being, "I am yours…"_

* * *

There were hayseeds stuffed in the mattress, crinkling and jittering against each other beneath the layers of soft blankets. There was a thin cotton sheet drawn over her, the fabric cool against her skin. Two pillows, both thin and rather lumpy, were tucked under her head. She could smell that sweet musk of his scent lingering around her. There was a cool breeze rippling through some overhead windows, flitting over her bare flesh. It felt good. Her hand left the pillow from beside her head, drifting over to her left to touch the bed.

It was empty.

Her eyes opened to confirm what her hand suspected. The part of the bed next to her was unoccupied, the sheets neatly drawn back up to the pillows. Slowly, she pushed herself upright, letting the sheet fall down her stomach, pooling at her hip bones. The door to the bedroom was open, revealing a small, narrow hall outside. She could make out the frame of another door, this one tightly closed. Yet even through a locked barrier, she could make out noises—the steady _clink_ of chemical vials against each other; a muffled bubbling of heated liquids churning around in vats, suspended over a bright blue flame…she remembered it well. It really didn't seem so long ago that she had been brought to his chemical lab and watched him in all his genius. She could see all the images float in front of her eyes, clear as day.

There was a small door adjacent to this bedroom. It was dark inside, but she supposed it had to be a bathroom. Her legs slipped out from under the sheets, bare feet touching cold wooden floors. The sheet slipped down from her body, dangling over the edge to brush the floor. Her feet were silent across the floor, moving until she reached the other room. Her hand fumbled around for a light switch. Her fingers flicked the switch carefully, illuminating the small bathroom, complete with toilet, sink and a joint bath and shower.

She swallowed quietly and stepped into the room, pushing the door closed behind her.

* * *

Her long hand grabbed a hold of the water dial, sending hot water blasting through the showerhead. It was hot, too hot—she wanted to burn her flesh off. Perhaps then she would feel more alive. Perhaps then she would be able to prove to herself that she was, in fact, human. If she saw her flesh melt away, leaving only a layer of burning red muscle and blood vessels, then she could confirm that she was alive, she was still breathing and living and blood was still pulsing through her veins.

No.

Her hand twisted the cold dial until it couldn't move anymore. Her skin shrieked in agony as a blast of frigid water suddenly seared over hot, burning flesh. Yes…yes, this was pain. And pain meant you were alive…pain meant that you were still feeling…this was good….wasn't it….?

God help her, she didn't have any idea as to what was right or wrong anymore.

"What is happening to me…?" she whispered. Her voice sounded weak and hoarse to her ears, drowned out by the rush of waters. Her hands rose, shaking, hands pushing through her soaked black strands, down to clasp around her neck, fingers digging into her skin, bruising. Her body rocked back and forth, fingers winding and unwinding in small strands of hair, pulling to feel pain—she had to feel pain. She had to remind herself that she was still human—that she was still _humane_.

"_Bitch?" her eyes hardened to ice crystals, "__**Bitch**__? I'll give you bitch, you filthy animal. __**You**__ will be the bitch. You will learn what it's like to be stripped of all that you are, cold and fast, and no one is there to hear your screams, your cries for mercy. You will taste that terror, the anguish, you pig. I'll see you thrash about, wriggling and writhing like the spineless cretin you are! I'll make you beg for mercy, just like you made me!"_

The water stung like wasps….hundreds, thousands of them striking over and over again—never ceasing, their stingers capable of reproducing countless times; their minds devoid of compassion. Was she like those wasps—those bitter, vicious spawn? Was she devoid of emotion, of compassion…of mercy?

"_Writhe for me, slut. Let me see you in agony—give me back what you stole!" Iris hissed, dropping his hand as though disgusted to have ever touched his skin. The results were instantaneous, and she felt her body responding very positively to the agony of the animal before her._

She tried to open her eyes. The water was too cold. Her lashes felt frozen to her cheeks, and the slightest effort to pry them from her skin was met with tight, sharp pain. Her mind did not want her to open her eyes…it didn't want her to break away from the images. It wanted to keep throwing her back into last night's events, over and over again…wanted her to relive it all. Every…last…minute…

_He looked around himself frantically, his breath coming in pants, gasps, growing into soft moans, high whimpers, yelps, slowly into screams, shrieks of terror. Walters dropped to his knees and covered his head, shrieking aloud, quaking and shaking all over, sweat breaking out over his skin. He convulsed as if having a seizure for a moment, and then stopped, breathing, panting. In seconds, he began freshly twisting, tearing at his abdomen, bent double in imagined pain, screaming, screaming to the heavens for help that would not come._

"_Oh my God, oh my God! Get them off me, please, they're all over me, they're inside me, please, please!"_

Her fingers dug deeper into her skin. Her nails bit, deep. Something warm lifted to her nails, only to be numbed by the cold water. She could almost feel her blood freezing around her fingertips.

"_Tell me what they are," Iris whispered, watching. She nearly shivered. This was so wrong…so twisted and cruel…_

_And so __**delicious**__._

Her hair was cold, heavy on her skull. The frozen strands hung in front of her eyes, stiff and lifeless. It was a brutal expression of how she felt…inside.

"_Oh God, can't you see? The rats, the rats-they're coming out of me…out of this hole in me!" He gestured to his. "How did this happen? Why am I alive? Oh, God, make them stop, make them stop!"_

He had been screaming so loudly….he was in pain—she'd put him in pain…agony, misery. But had he not done the same to her? Had he not massacred her soul, desecrated her body for the sake of his entertainment—and his friends' enjoyment? No…no, he hadn't even had the decency to take his _affairs_ in private…

But what she had done…wasn't it cruel? Malicious…destructive…just like what he had done to her? Wasn't she the girl who held a hard stand against revenge…because it solved nothing? It released anger…but the consequences could never truly equal the fleeting pleasure that came from acting out in a moment of rage…

But it had felt _incredible_.

She had been aroused by his misery…she had been able to do nothing but beg for her professor to take her, right then and there on that filthy alley ground. But it had been so…made her feel so _alive_.

If she felt so alive…doing something that was heartless—so utterly _insane_….

…then what did that make her?

* * *

There was a sharp _shriek_ of metal rings against metal pole as the shower curtain was yanked back, revealing her naked body, soaked to the core with freezing water, curled upright in the fetal position, head bowed between her knees. She didn't look up.

"Iris,"

His long hand twisted the cold water back down, slowly turning the hot dial back. He was careful to not heat the water too quickly—her body would be thrown into a state of shock…more than it already was. Black eyes slowly drifted over to her pitiful form, waiting in silence for her to speak.

"I shouldn't have done it…any of it…" she whispered into her numb hands, "I should have left you before any of it began…I should have remained away, just like the courts told me. I'm in complete violation of my parole just by speaking to you, let alone…letting you help me…_murder_ someone…"

"Yes, it was murder," he said quietly, "It was murder…even if he ended his own pitiful life, it was murder. But was it a _crime_, Iris?"

She didn't answer, but he knew she was listening by the _slight_ lift of her head from the fold of her white arms. "It was not a crime, Iris…it could never truly be a crime…he had to pay for his crimes. He had to pay for what he did to you."

"It was cruel…" she choked out.

"And what _he_ did to _you_ was not?" he hissed. The venom in his voice made her visibly flinch away from him; composing himself with a slow breath, he continued softly, "Iris…I remember that night as though it were yesterday. You were terrified, broken and beaten…I thought you would never consider another man again as long as you lived, but you let me kiss you…hold you…" his voice lowered with every breath he took, his lips nearing her ear. He suppressed a gleam of satisfaction at her shiver, "And then…you let me claim you that night….again and again and again until neither of us could breathe. And then you cried…you cried in my arms and you could not stop…you were so broken, Iris…and I could do nothing to heal you. Not until last night…and I watched you triumph so sweetly, so gloriously over your tormentor—reduced to your prey, helpless and spineless as he would always be—as he always had been."

She didn't answer. His long fingers reached around and cupped her chin, bringing her face back up to meet his eyes, "I had to protect you, Iris…would you begrudge us the victory last night because of your confusion?"

Her throat tightened as she swallowed, "I can't help it…" her voice was quiet, nearly broken, "I…I'm scared. I'm scared of what's happening to me…"

He leaned closer, sharp mouth hovering over her own, "Something wonderful…" he breathed, "Don't deny it…don't fight it…_embrace_ it, Iris…" he moved closer still, thin chest pressed to the rim of the bath, "Embrace me…my student…my Iris…"

His mouth pressed to hers, a soft kiss, a possessive kiss. Her eyes fell closed, body lax and malleable for his touches, his desires. She felt his body shift, then the water around her body shifted as he sank, knees first, into the bath. The kiss was broken, slowly, and his mouth relocated for a moment to her forehead. Her eyes opened, hands lifting to the wet cotton covering his chest, fingers working the buttons open slowly. His mouth twisted into a smile.

"Good girl, Iris…" he whispered, sliding between the twin mountains of her legs, "That's my good girl…"

* * *

The bed sheets were warm, if not stiff from being soaked through and eventually dried by the shared heat of two bodies in the delirium of lust. They were not as soft against her skin this time, but the slight grating reminded her that she was alive. More importantly…it reminded her that she was, in fact, making this decision to get out of the bed, long before his eyes would open.

And when they did open…they would find her gone.

Her eyes turned back to the man sleeping beneath the sheets, thin chest rising and falling slowly with his slow, deliberate breaths. He always looked far more calm…less troubled by the memories of his youth when he slept—irony at its best, for she could recall multiple occasions when his nightmares had awakened her in the middle of the night.

There was no other way. If the police found any evidence that she had been in his company, he would be returned to Arkham, but this time, van Dorn might actually have enough evidence to convict him of that horrid rape charge. She would be sent to Black Gate for aiding a criminal fugitive, of course, but that mattered little to her. His fate would serve a far more severe punishment…they could even transfer him to Black Gate, if van Dorn delivered a convincing argument. And within those walls…he wouldn't last two days. She knew what the inmates enjoyed doing to newcomers…especially someone convicted of crimes against children—the fact that she was only physically, chronologically a child didn't and wouldn't matter. A man of his stature with that damning crime…he wouldn't live past the first week.

She finished the buttons of his shirt with shaking hands. His clothes, which she'd borrowed from a small dresser in the bedroom, were enough to drown her, but it was no consequence. She would catch a taxi back home, and the drivers never asked too many questions, as long as you paid them their due with a tip.

Iris returned to the bed for a fleeting moment, leaning close to him. Her lips nearly brushed his forehead in a parting kiss.

She ripped herself away. And she did not stop running—not when she was out the door of the warehouse, not when she was crossing the labyrinth of alleys, eventually emptying out into the streets, not until she had nearly run out the street and almost hit by the yellow vehicle that could take her away from last night…what she had done…from _him_.

* * *

"I'm so glad you've come back, Iris." Marcus said, wrapping her tightly in an embrace and keeping her locked there, trapped for the longest five minutes of her life, "I was so worried…are you alright?"

"I'm sorry for my absence, Father," she whispered, her eyes locked on the floor. Alice took Iris away from their father's reach the instant he released her.

"Oh, it's all the past, my dear." He said with that smile that invoked a primitive rage in Alice, particularly when it could be likened to that of a butcher examining two particularly excellent slices of meat to be sold at market, "And more importantly, we can now focus on the future that awaits us—more especially _you_. Christopher eagerly awaits the forthcoming events of this very day, next week."

"W…What happens then?" Iris whispered, seeming disoriented or distracted—Alice wasn't quite sure which.

"You become Mrs. Christopher Fairview, that's what." He said, smiling in a way that all interpreted as kind and fatherly. It was a forced, nearly cold smile that made Alice tremble and clutch her little sister closer, "We moved the date ahead a little bit. It was a bit of a challenge, but the end will most certainly justify the means, wouldn't you agree, Iris?"

His meaning was so crystal clear that Alice could have slapped him where he stood. _The ends justify the means_…he had nearly killed his own daughter, knowing he could break her so fully that she would do anything he asked of her. And in the end, everyone who mattered in _his_ world would be happy. Iris didn't matter…and Alice didn't matter. They were biological tools, born and bred to be perfect wives…obedient children…and dominated, controlled mothers when the time came.

"Yes, Father." Iris' answer was too obedient…too voluntary…what had happened while she'd been away?

"Excellent!" he clasped his hands tightly together with that insufferable smile beneath his cold, empty eyes, "Well then, it's time for you two girls to be off to the tailor. We have to make sure everything goes perfectly…don't we, Iris?"

"Yes, Father." Alice felt the thin girl tremble. She felt so thin…fragile…like some porcelain doll just teetering on the verge of breaking apart. All it would take was one more little crack, and she would shatter completely.

"Good girl," Marcus whispered; his expression was suddenly unreadable—Alice thought nothing more of it than some business-related distraction that had come to mind. "Off you go then."

* * *

Three women, all tall, blonde, voluptuous (and thinner than the metal poles holding Alice's chair upright) surrounded Iris. Their perfect, creamy white hands fussed with pins and wrinkles, frequently gesturing for the dark-haired girl to raise her arms or turn in place. She obeyed in complete silence.

Her arms were currently held upright, stretched out horizontally like broken wings of a fallen bird. Her eyes had not left the floor since she had stepped onto the platform, dressed in crisp white silk and ivory lace. Alice looked at the scene, unable to erase the sadness from her face. Her little sister looked so broken…so small when she was so often strong and imposing.

Licking her lower lip slowly, she stood up and approached Iris, forcing a smile onto her face and hoping it passed as genuine. "You…you look beautiful, Iris." Alice whispered, trying and failing to make her voice sound encouraging or comforting, "And I heard that Father had several shipments of orchids and lilies imported for the wedding…you like lilies, don't you? Well, I know that irises are your favorite—and who could blame you? They're so beautiful…but I know the lilies will look stunning in your hair…and…"

Her voice faltered, seeing the emptiness on Iris' face. Sinking to her knees, she tried to meet that blue eye, "Iris…won't you talk to me?"

She shook her head in response, "I would, Alice…if I knew what to say." she answered slowly. From this close proximity, the blonde could see the true emptiness in her sister's face. It was devastating.

Alice opened her mouth again, only to be shoved aside by one of the blondes, coming at Iris with a handful of bobby pins. "Alright, honey, now there's just one last thing—we need to fix your hair up."

Iris suddenly sprang to life, stepping back so quickly that she nearly sent herself over the edge of the platform, "No…no, I want it down…" she whispered, "Don't touch it."

"This isn't up for discussion," the blonde retorted, reminding Alice unpleasantly of her mother. A flare of righteous fury emerged within her, bristling at the harsh way this woman spoke to Iris. Who did she think she was?

"And under whose authority did you reach that decision?" Iris answered, stepping back further. A spark of her old defiance, her old anger returned to the surface. The tiniest flicker of hope lifted in Alice, a silent and desperate prayer that her sister was back, that this was nothing more than—

"Mine,"

* * *

Alice had seen many emotions on Iris' face during the three years they had known each other, ever since they met that fateful night. She had seen irritation, distaste, frustration, satisfaction, the forced smile for the public, the genuine smile for Alice, playfulness, and even gentleness (though that was a rarity). She had often teased Iris about being "the woman of a thousand faces", and she frequently thought it to be an accurate statement. She'd even seen Iris' expression of awe and respect when she spoke about Professor Crane, her nostalgic smile when she spoke about the Rogues in Arkham. Once or twice, she'd seen Iris angry—though she'd been reassured it was not her true, absolute rage. Really, she had seen just about every possible emotion on her sister's face…

…except this one.

What little hope Alice might have harbored for her sister's return to "normalcy" died instantly. Iris' demeanor changed completely with that one word, with the introduction of this new voice—the owner of which Alice couldn't quite see from where she stood. She was too busy staring at her sister with an expression of both shock and confusion present on her soft features. Iris' face was tight, her one exposed eye widened, the pupil contracted and dilated to nothing more than a pinprick. Her posture was rigid, frozen in place, but her hands shook, trembling as they hung by her sides.

Iris was afraid. But not just _afraid_…this was true, genuine, irrevocable terror.

Alice's attention was abruptly diverted as the speaker finally stepped forward, dramatic and deliberate, with heels gleaming across the tile floor, each step echoing throughout the entire room—even the trio of blondes had gone shock still, eyes darting between each other as though unsure of whether to stay or run. There was a distinct rustle of skirts against the silken smoothness of lotion-coated legs that whispered with each stride. Finally, after a few agonizing moments, the steady rhythm of heels meeting tile stopped, two heeled shoes, white as porcelain, paused directly in front of the platform.

Two long, long legs—sculpted to perfection—stretched up, vanishing beneath the form-fitting skirt of a black, gold-trimmed dress that clung to every flawless, voluptuous curve. An ebony mane of thick, flowing curls swirled down to the middle of an arched back, framing an oval-shaped face set with high cheekbones, two sharp, vibrant green eyes outlined with mascara and eyeliner, and a pair of rich, full red lips drawn back to reveal a pair of neat, white teeth.

"Leave us alone, ladies," she spoke in a sharp, clear voice, "We have some catching up to do." She paid Alice no mind.

The blondes all but darted from the room; the echoing of their footsteps continued to ring in Alice's ears long after they'd vanished from view. She returned her attention to Iris and the newcomer—this woman who looked just like Iris—though her body was far more endowed and her smile far more malicious than Iris' could ever be.

"They are right, you know…" she said with a velvety silk edge to her tone, "Your hair will look _so_ much better when it's up, Iris darling." One hand lifted to run along the soft line of Iris' hair, a smile on her lips as she did so, "Why in the world wouldn't you want to show off this _pretty little face_?"

The voice changed dramatically, no longer a soft coo but a vicious snarl as her fingers grabbed the curtain of hair, that part of her beautiful mane that always fell with such quiet dignity over her face, yanking it back and bending the girl's head back so far Alice was all but waiting to hear her sister's neck snap. Instinctively, Alice's mouth parted, trying to work out a cry of protest, but the look of silent horror on Iris' now-exposed face cut away her voice before it even found root. She found herself helpless to speak, helpless to move…just _helpless_.

"Well, well, well…" the woman crooned, examining the right side of Iris' face with cruel, hateful satisfaction, "Not quite what I had hoped—it looks like you can still see just as well as ever…but it seems the job was done well enough. At least I got my _point_ across, no?"

She released Iris with a firm toss, letting her crumple to the platform. Her smile cold and calculating, she now turned her eyes to Alice, who stood frozen with shock and horror. "So you're the other one?" her upper lip curled with distaste, "Well…what more could I have expected, considering your mother? It seems _do_ deteriorate with each passing generation after all." Her hand gestured to Iris, "As you can see with _my_ offspring."

"Please…" Iris' voice spoke, but it was cracked, weak, "Please…don't make me marry him. Mother…please help me."

She was reaching for some small scrap of humanity left within her mother…some glimmer of hope that she would still be saved…that the past could be erased in its entirety if her mother would rescue her now…if she would just turn and—

"Don't waste your breath, little girl." Maria said coldly, turning and clicking out of the room, "You know your little whimpers mean nothing to me."


	23. Loving You Keeps Me Alive

"_A wedding is just like a funeral, except that you get to smell your own flowers."_

_~ Grace Hansen_

Chapter 23: Loving You Keeps Me Alive

"_Don't waste your breath, little girl. You know your little whimpers mean nothing to me."_

"Iris?"

"What?" she answered, staring blankly at the floor, her hands folded silently in her lap, over folds of stiff silk; the back of her hands itched from the lining of lace around the cuffs of her sleeves. Alice sank down beside her, her lavender dress crinkling around her knees on the floor.

"Iris…you can't seriously think that this will make you happy…" she whispered, her tone pleading.

"I'm not going to be happy," she answered, voice dull and robotic, "I'm going to be a wife."

"Iris….Iris, stop. This is crazy—it's madness! You don't love that…stuffed shirt peacock!"

Her head actually rose at Alice's particular description, "Where was that spark when you were engaged to the lizard?" she asked quietly; the traces of amusement that might have otherwise been there were non-existent.

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Alice threw up her hands in exasperation, "We are not discussing me, Iris! We're discussing the fact that you're about to walk down the aisle in a dress that makes you look like Queen Victoria and marry the most pompous, immature…_ape_ that I've ever had the displeasure of meeting! Now snap out of it and let's get out of here!"

"And go where, Alice?" Iris said, finally displaying some of her usual indignation, her old defiance and anger as she abruptly stood with a loud rustling of skirts, "Where are we supposed to go? Anywhere we could think about going in Gotham is anywhere that Dad can come and grab us again. We have no way of getting out of the city, let alone the state…so unless you can think of some brilliant way to erase everything we've ever known—ever _been_, please let me know!"

"You never used to care about any of that!" Alice said furiously, "You never, ever used to care, Iris!"

"Well, I don't have much of a choice, do I?" she shot back, running her hands through her sprayed curls—a classic sign of agitation. Alice glared at her retreating back.

"What happened to you?"

"What do you mean, what happened to me?" Iris said coolly, "Which part do you want to know about, hmm? You want to know about how Dad was never there for you or I because he was off in Europe or some other corner of America, wooing every woman that came within arm's reach of him? Do you want to hear about how being abandoned by my father—my supposed role model for all future relationships with men—gave me mixed messages about what to _expect_ from men? How I hated those teenagers and college apes who used me in high school and college, but I did nothing because I thought that was how men were supposed to act? How I'm damaged goods and worth absolutely nothing to you or anyone else in this world? How I used the only man in this world who actually gave a damn about me? How I left him after he made me feel safe and whole and complete?"

She paused, breathing heavily, eyes flashing, "Or maybe…you want to hear about this." Her hand brushed her hair back from her face, "Maybe you want to hear about the birthday present I received from my dear mother when I was the ripe, tender age of seven years old?"

Alice swallowed hard, "Iris…" she shook her head, "That…that's not—"

"Drop it, Alice," she cut in, "What's done is done…"

Something about her tone, or maybe her words (or maybe something else entirely) pinched a nerve hard—too hard. And Alice snapped.

"Oh, get a grip on yourself and grow up!" she was all but shouting, giving way to her anger for the first time in her life—something that she had never dared consider doing to her sister. She almost didn't notice the shock and awe that appeared on Iris' face with her outburst.

Almost, that is.

"Just…just get a grip already!" Alice fumed, "You…you spend all your time feeling sorry for yourself, wondering what life might have been like if things had just been different, if your family had been normal. For god's sake, what happened to the girl who _hated_ being normal? What happened to the girl who forced me to accept my feelings, who told me to ignore what the rest of _normal people_ believed I should do, should feel? What happened to the girl who told me I wasn't crazy—that I was _normal_ for not hating the man who kidnapped me, who betrayed my trust and my confidence for reasons I still don't understand? What happened to the girl who could tell anyone—even the director of her university—to take his views about her personal life and put them up where the sun doesn't shine? What happened to the girl who was my idol—and I'm the older one! What happened to her?"

Iris didn't answer, which only served to frustrate the blonde to a point she'd never crossed before. Closing the distance between them in two simple strides, she grabbed her sister by the shoulders and shook her slightly, frustration and confusion spilling out through her actions. "What's happened to you, Iris?"

"That's exactly what I want to know!"

Both girls whipped around at the outburst from the door. There, in the doorframe, they found a very unwelcome sight: Christopher Fairview in his wedding tuxedo, looking disgusted at the very sight of Iris—this woman he was supposed to marry. Immediately, Alice released her sister and took a protective stance. Her anger could wait until this unwelcome pest had left them alone.

"Let me see your face," Fairview demanded, striding over to Iris. Alice moved closer, standing between him and her sister. She found herself inanely amused that he was almost shorter than her.

"Why?" the older girl inquired, refusing to budge, refusing to leave her sister vulnerable.

"Because _she_," he pointed furiously to Iris, "is to be my wife and I told her to let me see her face!"

"No." Iris whispered, and Alice could almost feel her sister's body trembling. She'd never seen Iris lose herself to fear this way before. A few months ago, she would have considered it an absurd thought, a passing fancy.

"_Let me see it_!" Fairview demanded again, ruthlessly pushing Alice away, "It's true, isn't it?" he added when Iris neither complied nor responded, "It's true!"

"What's true?" she whispered. Her defiance and courage was fading with each passing second. Her second attempt to move away failed miserably. He grabbed her wrist and yanked her against him.

"I told you to let me see your face!" his hand grasped her hair and shoved it aside. The blonde could see Iris' body tense horribly, her face contorting in something that resembled fear, but there was a darker edge to it, present especially as the young man exposed the right side of her face once again. As anticipated, he quickly removed his hand, looking utterly disgusted to have ever _touched_ her in the first place, "My _God_…what in hell are you?"

"Ask her," Iris whispered, eyes glaring over at the door, where Alice found Maria leaning against the doorframe. At her daughter's accusing expression, her arched brows lifted innocently.

"Oh, darling…I thought we had moved past this…" a slight wrinkle appeared on her forehead, "Baby, why would you still blame me? I told you to be careful…don't you remember?"

_**Whore…filthy whore…**_

Iris tightened visibly, clenching her fists tightly to prevent any verbal expression. Her head lifted to find the Fairview heir moving away from her as fast as possible, disgust all over his face.

"She already told me what happened." he hissed, "So, you like to mess around in chemicals, do you? Play with them like some insipid child, only to throw the blame on everyone else for your own faults?" he visibly spit at her feet, and she barely resisted the urge to seize his throat, "You're still a child—throwing the blame on your mother like that! You selfish…_thing_!"

_**Kill…kill them both. Rip their throats, gut them like the pigs they are.**_

Iris was shaking, hand subconsciously clutching her temple. It was useless, and she knew it, but in this moment of desperation she would allow herself to believe the ridiculous notion that it might quell the pain, that it might silence the vicious, bloodthirsty snarls that resonated from the far reaches of her mind—this suppressed animal that hungered for bloodied flesh, that longed to take the throat of this _insipid child_.

_**Don't let him go on. Do it…kill the dog first, then the whore. I'll do it—let me out.**_

"The wedding is off!" he declared with a theatrical swipe of the hands, and she knew all-too well just how easy it would be to break the bones in those hands—every single one of them. "I'll not burden myself with you—with some demented freak of nature! You…you aren't even a woman! You're…you're a demon—you hideous snake!"

_**Let me out! Let me out now!**_

His words thrummed against her eardrums with the subtly of a train whistle. Her breath left her in a sudden and fierce exhalation, leaving her lungs to slowly gather air back into their needy hold. Her fingers slowly curled upwards into fists, but they did not stop upon meeting her palms. Instead, they continued going up, her nails piercing deep into the skin, until the ivory lace grew heavy and wet with her blood.

_**Let me out! Do it now—let him see just how much of a demon I can be! DO IT! **_

"A snake…" he repeated, spitting the word at her. Small specks of saliva landed on her cheek; she cut herself wiping them away with haste and disgust, "A bloody snake, that's what you are. Well, you'll not catch me so easily, devil! You won't!"

With that, he ran from the room—the spoiled little brat of a boy rushing out to his father to complain and whimper like the little dog he was. It would be so easy to make him scream again—make him scream like a bitch in heat. He would writhe and beg and plead for mercy—mercy and forgiveness she would never offer him. And then his blood would cover her hands—she could almost feel it…_taste it_—

"Iris."

Alice's voice shattered her ugly thoughts, bringing her back to reality—unpleasant a transition though it was. Defeat sank into her bones once again, leaving her tired, weary and broken. She only lifted her head to look into her sister's eyes—those pretty blue eyes that were still whole, still pure and pristine. Pretty blue eyes that Iris once possessed…a lifetime ago that had long since passed from memory. She didn't even remember what she looked like back then.

"What is it you want from me…?" Iris whispered. She didn't sound defeated…just tired. Alice swallowed, regretting her reprimand from earlier.

"I…" she took a deep breath, hand drifting to the small pocket of her dress and lifting a piece of glossy paper, "I want my sister back, Iris. I want the girl in this photo back…where she belongs."

Her eyes slowly rose to the photograph in Alice's outstretched fingers. Slowly, her own hand reached up, three fingers wrapping around the edges and silently withdrawing it from the other girl's hold. Her mouth suddenly felt dry as she looked at the picture—this memory that also seemed it belonged to another life, to another person. There was Harvey and Arnold, with Scarface in hand, closing the outer ranks of the group; Waylon and Edward stood closest to Arnold, while Harley and Pamela were gathered near Harvey. Jervis and Professor Crane—Jonathan—were in the middle. As she looked, she could remember Jervis' arms sweeping beneath her legs at the last minute, hoisting her into the air with support beneath her knees. And there she was, in her professor's arms with both arms wrapped around his neck, her head playfully throw back and her face turned towards the camera to reveal a dazzling smile—a genuine smile that was utterly impossible to fake.

She had been happy then.

"I want this girl back, Iris…" Alice whispered, "And so do they."

Her legs barely supported her, but she stood all the same. She was already walking towards the door when she remembered to explain herself. A part of her knew it wasn't necessary to explain anything. Her sister knew her well enough—knew her better than most, if not all others in this so-called civilized world—to guess where she might be going

"I need some air."

* * *

The evening sky was beautiful. The clouds swirled around the inky black canvas, turning it a black pearl color, highlighted by the glow of the moon, suspended as it always was, full and glowing. The silver light rained down upon her, soaking into her hair, her skin, her very soul…

_The floor met her spine with a firm blow as she landed awkwardly on the concrete. Tilting her head up slightly, she gave the figure towering above her a reproachful glare._

"_I can't believe you'd hit a __**girl**__, Waylon." She said, pushing herself upright once again to dust off. The former wrestler gave her a cocky grin._

"_Gotta keep ya on your toes," he said, flexing his upper arms once again before taking the appropriate stance, "C'mon—one more time now."_

_She assumed the position, her eyes this time trained on his legs. He advanced on her, but she didn't move, not yet. She just waited a little more—little longer—just another second—_

_At the very last second possible, she threw herself down towards the ground, hands shooting out to break her fall. Both elbows locked, hoisting her a foot off the ground. Her legs spun out, catching him right at the calf._

_This time, he went to the ground, looking up at her with no small amount of awe as she flipped back on her feet and outstretched a hand for him._

"_Where'd you learn that?" he asked, looking slightly dumbfounded._

_She shrugged with a smile, "Gymnastics for eight years."_

_Waylon grinned, baring sharp teeth that sent spikes of terror up most "normal" people. She merely returned the smile and took her position again, throwing him a little wink._

"_Up for Round Three?" _

It was, truly, the perfect night for a wedding. The lighting would have been perfect, the breeze was refreshingly cool—the perfect balance between cold and warm—and, most of all, it was a union between two of Gotham's elite families, to seal their funds permanently. He was, in any woman's right mind, quite a handsome man—even if he was a spoiled brat who couldn't do anything without running to Daddy—a child who had never done anything for himself, not once.

Truthfully, she wasn't sure how a man like Fairview Senior had raised a child like that. He was a quiet man, a reserved and dignified man. Yet there was a compassionate side to him; he had treated her quite well when they'd first met—she could not recall the precise time or date. She only remembered him to be the kind of person she ordinarily might not have thought twice about deceiving and manipulating for her own purposes—she was not a saint, after all. But somewhere inside, she also knew it would be impossible for her to take advantage of his mercy, of his kindness. She would be giving him false hope that he would be able to see his grandchild come into this world, and for all her bitterness and frustration toward people like him, toward the establishments and morals he stood for, she could not do that to him. More so, she could not do that to herself. To even play along with this shame would be to give herself even a small glimmer of hope that she could conceive. She didn't think her mind, or more importantly her heart, could recover from that…ever.

She hadn't even been paying attention to where she'd been walking until her ankle stepped into something cold and slippery. She fell hard to the grass, wincing slightly from the impact. Her eyes darted around on the dark ground, searching for the cause of her injury. After a matter of seconds, she spotted it: a small ditch filled with water from the rain earlier today. Her ankle ached, but at most, she had sustained a minor twist. Her wrists originally protested, indignant at being used to break her fall, but they were still useful and willing to push her body into an upright position. She drew her legs up close to her chest, wrapping her arms around the sharp angle of her knees.

Thunder boomed overhead, and seconds later there was a cold slap of rainwater on the back of her neck. Nature was weeping, just as she was. The water seeped into her skin…into the silk and satin of her dress. It was just like that bath, where she'd tried to kill herself merely to let herself feel alive—

_Jonathan_.

Her head slowly rose from her knees, tears streaking her face, ruining her mascara completely. She had felt alive…oh, she had felt so completely alive with him there, guiding her in that _lesson_. But this was hardly comparable to the lessons he had once taught her when he was bound by society's confines. No, this…this was so much more magical—more powerful. Power was a temptation…and the love she had for him was a deadly addition to the mix.

Yes…it was true. It was such an absolute truth—how could she deny it now? How could she have denied it for all these years? She loved him…she was so in love with him that it had taken her sanity…and she didn't want it back. Ever.

* * *

"Iris,"

Her eyes lifted, seeing him standing a few feet away from her. He was here…dressed in the crimson and tan rags…his face hidden by the mask that sparked terror in almost all who saw it. Even the hollow eyes of the Batman had been filled with fear at the sight of this face. They branded him a monster…murderer, freak, demon, scarecrow—all of these hateful names used to brand him as a _thing_. But he was _not_ a thing. He was a man—more of a man than Fairview, more of a man than her father…and certainly more of a man than the Walters scum.

Could he see the longing in her eyes? Could he see that she was a child once more, a child in need of his help…dependant upon him to open his arms to her and welcome her back…forgive her once again for the crime she had committed against his heart?

God as her witness, if he did…this would be the last time she would seek his forgiveness…for she would never harm him again. She would end her own life before she devastated his again.

"Please…" she whispered.

* * *

She looked so broken. That white dress that would make her the wife of another man was stained with the downpour, transforming white into pale silver. Her hair had been styled and twisted up, but the rain had demolished that obscenely unflattering style, letting soaked curls of pure ebony flow down around her long, thin neck, her sharp, graceful shoulders. There was no veil over her face any longer, finally revealing the half that had once infuriated him—to think that mother would have inflicted this damage onto his sweet student—but now entranced him. His eyes wandered over those details—the thin, smooth-edged scars that ran jagged and dark across the high cheekbone, down to her jaw in a senseless pattern inflicted by that woman's hand; the slope of her brow over the thin eyelid; the vivid, piercing gold eye with a permanently dilated pupil, a pinprick of black in a sea of sunlight.

He couldn't even remember why he was here. Some part of him—the part that still harbored anger for her abandonment—tried to remind him of his thirst for vengeance, of his desire to infect her with his toxin and leave her as she had him.

But she sat there, nearly crumpled on the soaking wet grass, black streaks of makeup running down the left side of her face, eyes gazing at him with a longing that made his heart twist and contort into a vice. She needed him…

And he had needed her to stay with him. He had shown her his world, given her what she wanted…brought her back to tend to her…saved her from herself…only to be thanked with an empty bed. There had been no note, no explanation…only emptiness once again.

He should leave her. He should let her taste the pain and anguish that came from a life marred by abandonment after abandonment…

No.

He would give her the choice. And if her answer was no…then his work was done.

His hand rose and reached out for her in complete silence.

He watched her stand, silver-stained dress catching the feeble glow of moonlight in its folds. Her curls were completely undone, staining over white skin and white silk. Both sides of her face stained someway or another…she looked like Eve, cast out from the garden of paradise. Her expression confused, conflicted and frightened—petrified, even, of what consequences her decision would conceive. He was the serpent—the clever trickster who wooed her with eloquent words and crafty seduction. She had tasted the forbidden fruit. She should have been cast out of Eden already—but that boy—Adam in his own right—had swept her back into his filthy arms…leaving stains of filth and disease that had contaminated his Iris.

But she remembered the taste of the fruit. She knew he could give her more…oh, he would give her as much as she craved. All she had to do was take his hand. And he was praying, begging silently for her to take his hand once again.

And once she had…God forsake him, but he would never let her go.

How could he let her go?

She was the one…the only one who had given him something to see, to hold on to and call his own—for the first time in this miserable, pitiful, abused, disgraced and empty life that he had led for all these years. She had been the only one to make him understand just how empty it had been…until she came into it. She had infected his soul, corrupted his quiet obedience to society and its rules. And from the first time he'd set eyes on her…he knew he would never be the same. And he would never want to be the same. No other name had ever, nor would ever, give him the same vibrant thrill of pleasure as hers did, every time it passed his lips.

He wanted her like he'd never wanted anything in his life. Oh, he wanted to watch this city burn to the ground, utterly destroyed by its infestation of hypocrisy. But he wanted her by his side, the mistress of fear, watching it burn with him.

She kept him alive…_loving_ her was what kept him alive…he could not survive without her and so help him God, he would not surrender her to some insipid child who would lock her up in a glass case, decorate and adorn her with ornaments like a fine china doll and leave her to be gawked at for the rest of her life.

He saw her head turn towards the church. Lights were on; over the roar of thunder and rain, he could faintly discern voices calling out for her. She was far enough away from him that she could run…she could try and flee from him…

If she did not take his hand…he could not just leave. Oh, it was a passing fancy to think that he could leave, forget her and move on to destroying this city and, most importantly, the Batman. But before he could ever begin that process…he would take her by force and keep her forever…turn her into his own private doll…and perhaps in time, she would come to life, born from his desire and his care.

But he hoped she would not make him do that.

All he wanted was his Eve…his Iris…

_Turn back to me, Iris. Turn back…come back to me…_

Her eyes met his.

Her hand reached out. Her fingers were soft and cold. He could feel her skin even through the rough burlap of his glove.

His fingers closed around her hand, and she did not move away. She merely waited for him to touch her, to bring her back to him. And this time, he did not hesitate.

* * *

"Iris…" A warm kiss melted her knees from its somewhat remote headquarters under her ear, above her rapidly pounding pulse. Two long hands clutched her to a hot chest—the outline of ribs undulated against her fingertips. "_Now_, Iris."

"Yes, Jonathan…" She paused to reward a nip to her collarbone with a gasp. "Just…"

"Just what?" The voice was no less passionate, but spoke of a restraint that was rapidly dwindling. Those hands were stroking and massaging her back, stealing her focus bit by bit.

"What does this mean?" Two black eyes honed in on her exposed blue eye and suddenly the room was about twenty degrees warmer.

"I," he said, punctuating each word with a kiss, "Have. No. Idea." A particularly heated kiss left her breathless, and she heard his satisfied voice as if from a distance as she clutched at the rough material of his shirt, fingers positively itching to rip it from his chest. "Shall we find out?"


	24. I Won't Chase You Anymore

"_Meeting you was fate. _

_Becoming your friend was a choice. _

_But falling in love with you…that I had no control over."_

_~ Author Unknown_

Chapter 24: I Won't Chase You Anymore

Cotton sheets were crumpled around her knees; a threadbare mattress stuffed with hayseeds pressed to her left side, cushioned by the thick blankets. One hand lay draped over her stomach, the other resting on the pillow beside her head. A cool breeze lightly drifted in through the open window, caressing her face ever slightly, bringing her back from the bliss of dreams into reality. Her eyes opened slowly. The mattress was empty to her left, the indent of her lover's body still in the thin material. Her hand slid slowly over to feel the warmth absorbed into the sheets, a small smile twitching up the right side of her mouth.

She rolled over slowly, seeing the bedroom door open. Across the hall, another door was slightly ajar. The sounds of glass vials clinking against each other, mingled with a quiet bubbling of chemicals, drifted out into the small hallway and to her ears.

She recognized this place. She probably should have been able to recognize it last night, but her mind had been…otherwise occupied.

Her long legs slipped out from the covers, walking almost silently across the wooden floorboards to a small dresser. Inside the top drawer, she located one of his shirts. She was surprised that he still kept his old dress shirts—things he hadn't worn since his days at the university, but considering her dress was shredded (literally) all over the floor, and the only other thing she had to wear was her underwear, she would be grateful that they were here and make the shirt suffice.

The shirt was white cotton, molding almost perfectly with the tone of her skin and contrasting just as profoundly with the color of her hair. The hem drifted neatly above mid thigh, swaying slightly as she crept towards his work area, the shirt open to reveal her set of black underwear. Her feet tread lightly across the hallway, slipping in through the crack with cat-like grace.

He was sitting at a long, wooden counter which had been turned into a desk. It was the perfect piece to be used as such—long, a decent width at 3 feet, and set up against the wall. In all, it didn't too different from the desks he'd had in his old factory—he'd certainly organized it the same way.

Her mouth pressed to the back of his neck, kissing a slow, lazy path up to his hairline. Though she couldn't quite see his face, she could hear his smile as he finally spoke.

"Miss DeLaine, I am working with highly dangerous chemicals." He said quietly, sounding neither displeased nor surprised to feel her touch, "The tiniest distraction could have very…chaotic results."

"Mmm…" she smiled thinly against his skin, "Sounds like fun."

"You would enjoy that, wouldn't you?" he said, turning in his seat and bringing her down in his lap, her long legs swung over his thighs with grace. Her arm slipped around his neck.

"What do you take me for, Professor?" her lips pouted teasingly, "Some law-abiding citizen of Gotham?"

"Silly me."

"Your lack of sleep is starting to get to you…" she cooed, letting her hands comb through his hair slowly, fingers massaging the scalp, "You've been overworking yourself, Professor…you need to relax more…"

"Thank you for your concern, Iris…" he answered, catching her wrists in spidery hands and bringing them down to rest on his chest, "But I do have work to do."

"You're _always_ working." She protested with a light croon, "Don't you ever take a break?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but his eyes were diverted to her clothing—or lack thereof. "Iris, is that my shirt?"

"Well, Professor," she answered, "You didn't exactly leave my dress intact…so unless you prefer me to be in my underwear…"

"A lovely temptation," he smiled thinly, pressing a slow kiss to her neck, "And kindly do not refer to that hideous garment as a _dress_. I have seen you in a real _dress_, Iris, and that…._thing_ does not constitute a dress."

"You don't care what it looks like," she said with a knowing smile, "You were just angry at what it represented."

"Do you object?"

"I christen you my hero," she purred against his temple, a soft kiss there, a quiet nuzzle here.

"Mmm…you're affectionate this morning, my dear one. What has gotten into you?"

"_You_, all last night, again and again…in the bed, against the wall, on the floor, in the shower…out in the open garden in the rain…"

"Iris, there is no need to speak like that."

"Speak like what?" she asked innocently, "I was merely stating a completely neutral fact."

"In a completely provocative manner."

"Oh tush," she dismissed casually, "Your objections are entirely empty, Professor. We both know that was exactly what happened last night."

"Not entirely," he corrected, shifting her body closer to his chest, "You forgot the car."

"The front seat, no less." She replied with a small laugh, "Weren't you the impatient one?"

"_I_ was impatient?"

She ignored him, her eyes falling on the chemicals stacked on his work desk, "Making new toxins…?"

"Experimenting and perfecting, my dear one." He replied, shifting slightly to swivel his chair around to face the work station properly, "Though I must admit this one isn't coming along as naturally as the others…" his arm propped up against the wood, looking rather dismayed, "Perhaps I'm losing my touch."

"Sometimes you find the wrong answers before you find the right ones." Iris murmured, her arms tugging him closer with a soft smile, "That's what science is all about."

He gave a quiet, distracted sigh, "Who told you that?"

She cupped his face with three long fingers, turning him to face her, "A former professor of mine by the name of Jonathan Crane."

He looked at her for a few long minutes, then his thin mouth curved up into a very small smile, "You have always defended your professor to the fullest of your capabilities, Iris." He sighed softly, running the back of his hand up her arm with a lazy gesture, "Every time those fools threw accusations at our relationship, every time some preening coed attempted to earn a high grade by planting themselves in my lap—the freak's lap, as they called it—you were always there, always defending me."

She let her head rest on his shoulder with a quiet sigh, "They were trying to ruin you. They had no right to hurt you like that."

"So loving…so defensive and protective of me." He kissed her forehead slowly, "And it brought you right to Arkham…"

"And back into your arms…" she whispered, leaning forward, her mouth ghosting over his neck, "Where I belong….."

It was a righteous determination of sheer willpower to resist the kisses running up and down his neck, but he finally managed to push her away, "Iris…not now, my dear. I'm working. You know Professor Crane can't work when his little protégé is distracting him."

"And your point is…?" she purred quietly, nibbling his earlobe with a wicked smile.

"Iris DeLaine…."

"Mmm…I like it when you say my name, Professor….."

"Iris, for the love of God, would you kindly remove your hand from my chest and go back to bed?"

"I'd love to go back to bed…." She cooed, letting her fingers twist in his shirt and bringing him (unsteadily) to his feet, "But you know how I _hate_ to go alone….won't you keep me company?"

"Iris…"

"Please…?"

"I am trying to work, Iris…"

"You're always working, Professor…" her hands slipped over the narrow slope of his shoulders, fingers splayed out to massage the muscles, "You're overworking yourself…your back is a mine field of tension. Why don't let me help you with that?"

"I'm doing quite fine, thank—mmph!"

When she finally saw fit to release him from a suffocating kiss, he found himself looking into gleaming eyes and a wicked smile, "I can make it worth your time…_Professor_."

* * *

"I believe it is time for me to reevaluate my decision to be near you while working, Iris." Crane said, staring up at the ceiling, "You are becoming quite a distraction."

"I've always been a distraction." She commented innocently, curled up on the edge of the bed with the slightest _suggestion_ of a pout, "That's why you love me, isn't it?"

"I don't have the slightest idea what you are talking about."

"Scarecrows make very poor liars." She smirked slightly, earning a reproachful look from her lover.

"Very funny, Iris." He sighed quietly, shifting over to his side. Her hands neatly folded over his shoulder, propping her chin atop the folded digits.

"I don't think you appreciate my humor." She pouted, "Or what I do for you around here…"

He didn't answer, or even acknowledge her words at all. Instead, he shifted away with a sigh, turning towards the other side of the bed with the clear intention of getting up again. Her arms wrapped around him from behind, resting her forehead on his bare shoulder.

"I didn't mean to upset you, Jonathan." She whispered. "Won't you talk to me?"

His left hand rose, wrapping slowly around hers with a quiet sigh. She knew immediately it was not one of contentment—or even one that contained any sort of emotion whatsoever. The slight crease between her brows deepened at his silence. "Jonathan…?" she tried again, already feeling a sense of dread seeping into her body, down to her very bones.

The professor slowly stood from the bed, moving toward his scattered clothing. Uncertain of what to do, her arms fell away from him, coming to rest on the bedcovers. Her teeth caught her lower lip, worrying it silently. "Jonathan, please…talk to me…?"

"I don't understand this, Iris." She should have been relieved to hear him speak, but she wasn't. His tone was quiet, his demeanor suddenly transformed from casual and relaxed to tense and cold. She didn't like him like this.

"I don't understand this—I do not understand _you_."

"What…what are you talking about?" she whispered. She shouldn't really have played naïve like this. They both knew exactly what he was talking about. It was simply easier for her to pretend she didn't—at least for as long as she possibly could.

"I brought you home, Iris." he said quietly, slowly redressing as he spoke. "I let you go for a month—perhaps more—only to discover that during that period of time, you became engaged to another man. The engagement was understandable in itself—under your father's coercion, it could be argued that you had no other choice but to smile and nod and do as you are told. However," his voice tightened in unison with pulling his shirt over his shoulders, "That was one matter. What transpired last night was a different matter entirely. You were dressed for the wedding, Iris…you were going to marry him."

He paused, and when he spoke again, there was a certain roughness to his tone that only came with keeping extreme emotion out of one's voice. "You would have married him. You would have left me…forever."

Her fingers tangled in the sheets, her head bowed and eyes screwed shut. She wished there was a way to block out his words, to shut out the truth of what she'd done. She wanted to speak, wanted to plead with him and say that she _hadn't_ married that impertinent, self-absorbed _boy_.

But the truth was simply that she had resigned herself to marry him. She had even told Alice so, hadn't she? She had agreed to marry the Fairview boy and leave Jonathan…leave everyone who really mattered in her life.

"I showed you my world, Iris." He whispered, voice calmed now—_too_ calm, "I gave you a taste of my world…of true freedom and wonder. I opened myself to you in a way I have never done before—not in all the years we have known each other. I brought you close—but perhaps that was my mistake, once again."

He paused again, as though to consider this statement. Then he nodded slowly, "Yes…it was my mistake. I have only opened myself this way once before—to a young woman not much older than yourself. And just like this time, it ended in humiliation and regrets. Perhaps it is time I learned my lesson. Perhaps I should begin to limit myself…if not cease this interaction completely."

Her heart was grasped in a vice—ice-cold, vicious grip that was just as physically painful as it was emotionally shattering. He wasn't…he couldn't be…

"Jonathan…no…no, please don't…"

One long hand reached down, cupping her chin and lifting up slightly, just enough to force her gaze upward. His expression was that of calm resolve…determination…and the most brutal form of disappointment she'd ever had directed upon her. Seeing her father disappointed was one thing; looking into her father's eyes and knowing she had failed him as a daughter was one thing, but this was far above and beyond anything else.

She actually _cared_ that Jonathan was disappointed in her, that she had completely and utterly _failed_ him.

And she hadn't just failed him as a lover and a student. She had failed him as a confidant…a _friend_.

"You were my greatest student…" he murmured, thumb slowly stroking over her jaw, "My closest companion. I showed you things I have never shown another human being…allowed you into my world as I have never permitted another. And you were prepared to betray me for _normalcy_, Iris. You would have abandoned me for the sake of your _sanity_."

Each word, each _breath_ he took to speak those words, drove into her—a rusted pike being twisted and ground deeper and deeper into her heart until she was certain she would soon hear her spine _**snap**_ with the force of a fatal blow.

He gave a quiet, hollow laugh, shaking his head slowly, "I once thought the very idea of commitment from another human being laughable. My mother certainly never gave me such courtesy, and the notion that my dear granny would have even _considered_ it…it is equally amusing. I'd never considered until now that every woman in my life has fallen into the same pattern of behavior—it is a most intriguing experiment. If only I'd realized sooner that this was a recurring pattern throughout my life. I could have made quite impressive observations."

Her spine had to have snapped. It must have. The pike—the knife—the blade—had to be driven through her completely. When she looked at herself, she was going to be pinned to the wall like a pretty little butterfly, mounted in a display case for all and any to see.

This was how low she had fallen…this was how worthless she had become—this is just how deeply she had betrayed him.

Her professor…her mentor and educator…her constant companion, protector, comforter, confidant…her closest _friend_—a man who had suffered as she had, who had been abandoned and destroyed by those who should have protected him, who had protected her as he had never been. This was what she had done. She had harmed him so greatly that he was returning her betrayal in the worst possible injury he had _ever_ dealt her—this injury that was well beyond physical pain.

He saw her as no better than those who had ruined his childhood…who had _destroyed_ him.

"I'm afraid I cannot stay, Iris." He said, reaching out to take a thickly packed messenger bag, constructed of heavily worn leather, "Our dear vigilante is all too familiar with this place; it is only a matter of time before he will find me here. And that is something I cannot allow. I have work to do."

"Jonathan…" her voice was incredibly silent. It was no surprise that he did not hear her—or rather, simply ignored her.

"I trust you can find your way home from here." He replied, adjusting the leather strap over his shoulder, "I would walk you, but being out in public at the moment is hardly beneficial."

"Jonathan." She tried again.

"At any rate…I must bid you good night, Miss DeLaine." He said, making no indication that he'd heard her. One free hand reached out to retrieve his mask.

_No…no!_

Her heart was shrieking in pain…it must be on the verge of shattering…bursting apart inside her chest.

_Don't go!_

She tried to run after him, to grab at his clothes.

_Please! I'll be good! I'll be good, just __**please**__ don't go!_

She wanted to throw herself at his feet, clutch at him, beg him, plead with him, bargain…_anything_ that would keep him here.

_Don't! Please don't!_

Keep him with her…

_Don't…_

Keep her safe in his arms…that was the only place she was truly safe…

_I __**beg**__ you…_

"Jonathan…" she gasped, feeling icy tears bubble up beneath her eyelids. It would be only a matter of seconds before she would be sobbing.

"Jonathan…Professor Crane…please…" she was choking on her own words, "What…what do you want from me?"

He paused, turning back just enough to allow her a last glimpse of the right side of his face. She was not permitted to see all of him.

"Only for you to choose where you stand, Iris." He said quietly, "I have given you everything…and in essence, received nothing from you in return. I wish for you to choose a side…choose a life. Though, I suppose your most recent actions have answered that question for me." He turned away from her, "I will not chase after you forever, Iris. Not if it means I am fated to have you slip through my fingers again and again…and never truly belong to me."

The door fell closed behind him.

_Don't leave me…_

Her body crumpled on the sheets, fingers tangled in the fabric as she fought down a desperate cry.

_I love you._


	25. Broken Little Doll

"_Don't forget that I cannot see myself. My role is limited to being the one who looks into the mirror."_

_~ Jacques Rigaut_

Chapter 25: Broken Little Doll

It's a funny thing, really…to look into a mirror.

You see so many things.

You see things that are pretty. You see things that are mediocre—they're hardly the worst aspects of your appearance, but they could be improved. After all, isn't perfection what we all seek after in this world?

Isn't that what it was all about?

To be born into a perfect family.

To achieve a perfect status in life.

To marry the perfect man.

To live in the perfect house.

To be the perfect mother.

To have the perfect children.

And above all…_look the part_. You simply cannot hold standing in the world of social elit if you did not uphold your reputation with the proper appearances.

The perfect hair.

The perfect face.

The prefect smile.

The perfect skin.

The perfect body.

_Perfection_.

That was all that mattered.

And she didn't have it.

Iris could see herself now, reflected in the glass panes of the many, many mirrors that surrounded her. A lanky, skeletal body that had been in such condition since the day she was born. A face forever split in two distinct halves. A secret protected only by a cloak of black hair that had taken five years to grow. A constant reminder that she was a failure to her father, an inconvenience to her mother…and a traitor to the one man she had felt safe with, who had protected her when all others had left her bleeding and battered on the ground…

The man with whom she had fallen in love.

And then she had betrayed him.

Her forehead came to rest against the cold glass. She wished, now more than ever, to throw herself into the glass…to shatter it and her body with it. She felt only an overwhelming sense of despair…like there was nothing left of her.

Without Jonathan…what _was_ there left of her?

"_I won't chase after you forever, Iris. Not if it means I am fated to have you slip through my fingers again and again…never truly belong to me…"_

Her eyes slowly opened, finding her reflection once more in the glass. Her black hair had drifted away from her face, revealing it in all its hideous, deplorable—

Wait.

This was exactly what her parents—her mother—wanted her to feel. This is how she had been manipulated to see herself—year after year after year after _year_, until there was no other way _to_ see herself. She recalled reflecting those dark, painful emotions onto small dolls when she was younger—the grand total of three dolls which she was permitted to have in her dungeon of a bedroom.

Even now, Iris could have laughed at the memory. Yes, three dolls in twelve years…and all of them had been tossed away into the trash when she left for Gotham State.

She felt genuinely sorry for her creations. Those dolls had done nothing to deserve such treatment, such cruelty. They had been as innocent as herself, but she had been forced to stare at them, day after day, week after week…year after year. They had stared at her, eyes wide and innocent—blue eyes, green eyes, and even a pair of pretty little violet eyes—trusting her to not harm them, trusting her to keep their perfection and beauty.

Trusting her to protect every little piece of them…pieces of perfection and beauty she would never have.

She had not let them keep that perfection, that beauty which had been denied her so cruelly. They had suffered…suffered greatly. Those beautiful locks of flowing hair—blonde, caramel brown, shimmering red—had been torn and chopped away, leaving mangled clumps latched upon their heads. Their faces of perfect, flawless skin scarred, brutalized with a pair of scissors—or some small knife, if she could get her hands on one—leaving deep, jagged marks all along their cheeks and noses. The clothes were never touched—clothes were only material things. They mattered little…they could be destroyed and rebuilt.

But the eyes…she had _hated_ those eyes, more than life itself. More than she hated _her_ life.

Those eyes…_God_ damn those eyes. So innocent and blank, yet completely devoid of any real emotion, of anything that might have indicated they were alive, able to speak and breathe and laugh and cry and feel—feel pain, feel joy, feel sadness, feel anger. They had been _dead_.

Which was exactly how she'd felt—how she _still_ felt.

Deadened inside.

Weak.

Helpless.

_Dirty_.

_**Disgusting**_.

That was exactly how her mother wanted her to feel...just to ensure her own polluted and distorted self image would never be destroyed.

Iris was just like those little dolls that she had broken and abused. She just hadn't wanted to face it.

Her head slowly turned from the mirror, eyes tracing along the tiled floor until she found her bookshelf: black-painted wood, stocked full with fiction novels—ten different copies of _The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Other Works by Washington Irving_; two volumes of Edgar Allen Poe's works; five different editions of _Completed Poems of Emily Dickinson_. There were fifteen different books, all of them discussing mythology of varying cultures—Greek, Roman, Celtic, Norse, and more—stocking up two shelves on their own.

And then there were three whole shelves stocked with a complete series of deviant psychology texts…all of them with the same author: _Professor Jonathan Crane_.

But none of them were what she was looking for.

There was a small ledge adjacent to the lowest of the shelves on the bookcase. It held a small variety of items—a thin stack of notebooks, half of them filled from nightly writing while she was in Arkham; a blue pen laid beside the stack; a book of Poe's poetry that she'd been reading the other night…

And a doll.

It was the only doll she had left. And if the truth were to be told, she didn't want another doll.

Those blue eyes gazed fondly at her from where the doll had been placed against the edge of the shelf. Her arms laid calmly by her side, legs bent at the knee where they hung over the wooden edge. She still wore that beautiful, hand-sewn dress, her face unchanged—not smiling, but not frowning. She was calm...she was at peace.

Iris slowly stood, walking in silence until she was directly in front of the doll. Her black curls were slightly askew, most likely having been mussed during her transportation. One hand lifted, brushing them carefully into proper alignment.

There…now she was perfect.

"Well, isn't this precious?"

Iris turned, her heart slamming painfully into her ribs at the cold voice emitting from her doorway. She knew that voice, and yet no matter how many times she heard it—heard it in such close proximity to her person—she always prayed it was some trick of the ears and mind…that she was simply letting her demons get the better of her.

But that couldn't be helped.

Her demons were always close by…just waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

* * *

Iris had always been able to compare her mother to a black widow. A deadly spider, and while not necessarily the deadliest of them all, it was still a poisonous creature. Oddly beautiful to look at, in its own way of course, with that sleek, flawless ebony body; eight long and graceful legs that moved in perfect synchronicity to each other; and that sudden burst of vivid red on the underside of the body. Just by looking at the spider, one might have never believed how deadly it could be.

Of course, as Iris had grown older, it became clear to her that there was a distinct difference between a black widow spider and Maria DeLaine.

A black widow only killed its male partner to ingest the nutrients and thus properly nurture her young—a new logic to the ends justifying the means. And it would only bite a human being if it felt it was severely threatened—_severely_ being the operative word. A human being had to be incredibly unlucky—as well as absurdly inattentive—if they were to be bitten by the spider.

But Iris knew better than to presume the same for the woman who had conceived her. There was no logic or rationale to what her mother did—not only to her daughter, but to everyone else who ever dared to upset her. There was no rhyme or reason to why she inflicted the kind of cruelty she did upon others.

This was precisely why Iris had become a student of psychology…to understand _why_ her mother did what she did. And now she knew.

But that had not yet eased the terror she felt sear her heart…all at the sound of a voice.

Maria glided forward, her polished black heels slapping the tiled floors, the skirt of her blood red dress (such an appropriate color) swirling and whispering around her perfectly toned and bronzed legs as she moved toward her frozen daughter. Her face sported its necessary application of makeup—including mascara and eyeliner—though Iris knew it would be cleaned from her face, and then reapplied before the show, just to make sure it was fresh and perfect for the spotlight.

Her sharp blue eyes narrowed slightly at the sight of Iris' hand still on the doll. Crimson-painted lips curled into a twisted smile. "Aren't you a little old for dolls, Iris?" she breathed, voice cold as ever.

When she didn't receive an answer, those eyes narrowed to thin slivers of blue on her polished face, "Answer me, little girl."

"No." Iris whispered.

_Smack!_

She had expected the blow, but there was no way to hide the bright red mark that immediately rose on her left cheek. At least the pain was slightly dulled. There was no way a little slap would bring her to the ground. She had endured much worse from those hands.

"Don't you _dare_ speak that way to me, young lady." Maria whispered, grabbing her daughter's chin in a cold hand—her hands had always been cold—and forcing her to look up. The violent jerk was enough to create quite a bit of pain in Iris' neck muscles. Yet still she did not yield. She would not break this time.

"I am not a child anymore." she ground out, determined to keep the eye contact with her mother, to not let her get the best of her again. "You can't just tell me what to do—" she cut off as her face was abruptly released, followed by the back of her mother's hand striking her face again—this time, on the right cheek. In spite of it all, Iris could not deny her satisfaction at the fury etched into the medically erased lines of her mother's face, her true age slowly seeping to the surface with her anger.

"Apologize to me. _Now_." she whispered, voice shaking slightly with the effort to remain calm.

"No," Iris whispered, holding back any signs of pain, unwilling to give her any satisfaction. To add insult to injury, she turned away, moving towards the door. "You might have been able to tell me what to do when I was a little girl, _Maria_," she heard a sharp hiss of fury pass through the older woman's teeth, but held her ground, "But not now. You…you can't control me anymore. I don't need you…I never did."

Silence passed, and then Maria let out a sharp burst of cold laughter, "Oh, really? A declaration of poverty, is that what I'm hearing from you, little girl? Because if you do not apologize to me right this instant, I assure you that is _precisely_ what you will have accomplished for yourself! I will have you disowned in a matter of _hours_!"

"I don't care." Iris said, keeping her gaze away from her mother—eye contact established control for both parties. Acting like Maria did not even exist was taking control away from her. "I don't need the money."

"Oh?" Maria hissed, "And just how do you plan on surviving out there, hmm? On your _looks_?"

Iris had reached the doorway now, head held high, eyes firmly trained on the opposing wall, "Professor Crane sees something _you_ don't—and you never have! That's all I need!"

"Oh, _does he_?" Maria's voice was little more than a vicious snarl now.

Iris tightened her jaw, taking one step out of her bedroom, fully prepared to find Jonathan. She would do whatever it took to earn his forgiveness, even if she had to swear her heart and mind and body and soul to him for the rest of her life, even if he made her sleep on the floor like a dog for the rest of the night. He would forgive her in time, and even if he never fully pardoned her betrayal, she would remain by his side. She would never, ever leave him again. Not even if—

"Well then, what if your dear professor were to have an unfortunate _accident_?"

Those words were cold, sharp and vicious…she barely had two seconds to recover from the verbal assault when she found her upper arm twisted in a violent grip, and a hand with sharp nails (acrylic, painted red to match her dress) had grabbed a large handful of black hair and yanked her neck backwards, forcing her to look upside down at her mother's face.

"Your darling Scarecrow might have made a name for himself out on the streets, Iris," Maria breathed, her eyes frozen pellets of blue ice, "But inside Arkham, he's just another skinny little man with nothing and no one to protect him. The doctors don't give a damn—and even if they do…well, we all know what a nice check can do for a person's attention span."

Iris felt her heart racing, hard enough to bring physical pain to her ribcage. No…Maria was cruel and twisted…but not like this. She wouldn't…she _wouldn't_…

"And those guards…all those nice, supple young men…forced to work those long, _long_ shifts…never able to see a female outside the asylum…"

She could do whatever she wanted to Iris—she'd learned to live with it, to cope and heal in time…she could do whatever she wanted…but only to _her_…

"And they spend all their free time at the gymnasium…working those lovely muscles out…making themselves nice and _tight_…firm and powerful…some of them strong enough to take a man like Crane…"

_No…_

"With his thin limbs—no muscle to his name, weak and unprotected—pitiful, really. God knows what you see in _him_, let alone what he sees in _you_."

_No…no, leave him alone…_

"And I'll bet…" her lips were inches from Iris' ear, "It would take a matter of _minutes_ for those young men to snap him in half…like a little _twig_."

_**No!**_

Maria was laughing—she was laughing, just like she had laughed every time Iris had begged for mercy, every time tiny hands had reached up for their mother's compassion and love. "And then…maybe they could have some _fun_ with him. After all, those poor men do have their needs…"

"You can't!" she finally cried, feeling her stomach twist violently. She was angry, she was sick, she was confused, she was angry…_angry_, "You…you wouldn't!"

_**Look at how she laughs…she mocks him with that mouth—with the mouth of a whore. **_

"You underestimate me…." Maria breathed calmly, releasing her daughter and watching with empty eyes as she crumpled to the floor, "And seeing as the professor has interfered in our lives once too many…I believe it may be time to have your father invoke those _favors_ that Miss Van Dorn owes him. She's _incredibly_ fond of Marcus, you know—not that I blame her." she smirked, giving her head a light toss, "Marcus has always proven very exceptional in bed—one of the favors I always enjoy when he comes home."

_**Shut up. Sew the whore's mouth closed. **_

Iris froze, "What are you saying…?"

_**You know what she's saying. You know what the dog likes to do.**_

"Wake up, little girl." Maria said, checking her reflection in the mirror, "Have you honestly not figured it out yet? Even _I_ knew Marcus' extracurricular activities with our dear District Attorney—not that I really care. I know where my husband's loyalties lie."

_**A dog always returns to his bitch.**_

Her stomach was churning violently…she was going to be sick. "Are you saying…he's been sleeping with her?"

"A man has his needs." She shrugged, tossing her hair with one hand, "And the fact that sweet Janet thinks he's madly in love with her doesn't hurt anything." She laughed again, "Would you believe that she thinks he's going to leave me for her?"

_**Whores—shameless little bitches, clamoring over him like they would a scrap of meat.**_

"And you don't care?" Iris whispered, trying to sit upright without retching. She wasn't entirely sure her body would allow it, not with every fiber of her being needing to purge itself, to cleanse her mind of these words.

"Why should I?" Maria shrugged again, "Your father is no fool. Honestly, Iris…what man would leave this," she gestured one hand down her curvaceous form, "for someone like Van Dorn? Stupid woman—but on the other hand, she's quite useful for certain favors …" her lips twisted into a cold smile, "Like looking the other way when an Arkham inmate dies under suspicious circumstances?"

_**Never.**_

"No…no, do what you want to me…" she was begging—pitiful and pathetic words that were wasted yet fell from her lips all the same, "But please…Mother, please leave him alone…"

_**She'll never touch him.**_

"Your emotion for him is touching." Maria said coolly, turning slowly. One hand reached out and grasped the doll, looking at it with distain, "And completely worthless. You really should learn better than to suppose me compassionate and sympathetic to your whimpering plights, Iris. I didn't get where am I today by letting myself get pushed and batted around by pleading eyes and sniveling requests."

"No," Iris whispered, trembling with rage, "You got where you are by manipulating, destroying, and abusing others…it didn't matter who they were or what they might have done. They were all tossed around and thrown out like garbage."

_**I won't allow it.**_

Maria blinked in response, "I'd put a bandage on that bleeding heart of yours, Iris. It doesn't suit a member of this family. And neither does this." She added, giving the doll a violent shake, "I'd get rid of it. And while you're at it, remove yourself from my presence for a few days, won't you? I'm expecting a male friend to visit. He doesn't know I have a daughter, and it's going to stay that way."

With that, she marched straight for the door, tossing the doll over her shoulder as she did so. The door fell closed behind her.

* * *

Iris' body acted before her mind registered any movement, throwing herself out across the floor. Her hands _barely_ got under the doll before it made contact with the hard tile. Instinctively, her arms pulled it close, cradling it against her chest. It was necessary…she had to protect it from further harm…she had to keep it close.

This doll wasn't another object. It was handmade by a man who loved her. A man who was permanently split in two—one side the quiet and meek showman, the other a calculating and talented crime boss—and yet both sides thought of her as a daughter, loved her and protected her in their own individual ways.

This doll was a gift…and it was a representation of her body—an image of beauty and perfection that she never considered possible.

One fingers traced along a single curl, framing the pale face, falling lightly into the sharp blue eyes. Her eyes rose, looking up at the mirror closest to her—the one hanging above her dresser. Slowly, she laid the doll on her bed and approached the mirror.

She once hated mirrors…loathed them with a deep, poisonous passion. And yet now…she felt no fear, nor hatred…only an odd, childlike sense of curiosity.

She stopped a few feet away from the mirror. Carefully, knowing without knowing what she would face, she lifted a hand to her forehead. Taking a deep breath, she slowly combed back the hair hiding her right eye.

The razor-sharp gold and the long red scratches—as clear as they ever had been—stared back at her, honest, unafraid. They had been waiting for years for her to accept them...they were a part of the woman she had been, that she still was and would always be. Iris saw herself looking at the mark with a strange wonder, feeling as if she had unearthed some deeply personal, hidden object from a relative long-dead. Distance separating her from that time, that world in which she would never belong again, Iris smiled and tucked the hair behind her ear.

No…she did not belong to that world anymore. She never had truly belonged to that world...at least not for ten years.

That life—a life of reason and perfection and sanity—ended the day her mother put this mark upon her.

It was beautiful…this mark that brought her out of this hypocrisy-ridden world and into another world entirely.

A world filled with true beauty…filled with such wonder…with new experiences to be lived, with new discoveries to be made…with open arms to welcome her home with no compromise…with no strings attached or requirements to be met.

Her eyes fell closed, losing herself in the dark whispers of her mind. It was strangely peaceful, disturbingly comforting and reassuring to hear this voice once again. She dare not look in the mirror yet. Her memory reminded her of what would be seen, and she could not face it—not yet. For now, she was content to hear the voice, to listen to its words…and obey its commands.

_**She will not escape vengeance's sweet hold. The time has come to reclaim blood—purge the body of her filth. It is time.**_

"Yes," Iris whispered aloud, the words falling light from her tongue, "It is time."


	26. Retribution

"_It is amazing how complete is the delusion that beauty is goodness."_

_~ Leo Nikolaevich Tolstoy_

Chapter 26: Retribution

"Backstage" was a funny term, contradictory in its way. It was the place every fan wanted to go, even for a few short seconds of their life. They spent hours upon hours searching for tickets, bargaining, begging, perhaps even stealing their way into a chance to earn this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Outside, a mere twenty-five feet from the exit, one could hear the excited shrieks and cries, pleas for the star of the show to emerge and grace fans with a short moment of her presence.

But not tonight.

Iris knew Maria's excuses like she knew her professor's psychology texts. She would deny the public the pleasure of seeing her, giving autographs and such, claiming that she was far too exhausted—knowing full well the fans would never _imagine_ putting their idol under such terrible stress. Nodding graciously, thanking them for their understanding, she would then have retired to her dressing room to gloat over her success and order a few assistants around.

Iris' footsteps were all but inaudible—a trait she had learned from Harleen and Pamela two months into her sentence at Arkham—as she crept along the hallway. She kept her body pressed up against the wall to ensure no one would spot a detached shadow along the floors and grow suspicious. Her breathing slow and deliberate, she slipped around a corner, stepping idly over a trailing power cord on the floor.

And then, from a doorway, the voice.

"And just _where_ is the lipstick I wanted _four hours ago_, you _incompetent_ little wench?"

Oh, it was so nice to hear from Mummy once more. Iris decided to go give her a little _hug_. After all, it simply would not do to postpone such a _momentous_ reunion of mother and daughter. The hours that had passed since their last encounter seemed too long, too long to even fathom.

A young woman, probably no older than twenty (at most), cowered on her knees, quivering beside a round-backed, crimson-cushioned chair, located in front of a massive vanity, constructed of polished marble from crown to stand. It was a saddening display, really—but then again, Maria always had a unique ability to make a full grown man fall to his knees and cry hysterically (her last manager, for example).

"I…I'm sorry, Miss DeLaine…really, really, really I am! I t-t-tried…really, but…."

"But _what_?" the response was wrapped in a vicious hiss.

"But they…they said they were backordered…" the girl was trembling now, "I told them who I was calling on behalf of, but they said there was nothing they could do for you. Please, please, please, please….Miss DeLaine, I'm sorry!"

The poor girl looked positively petrified as the model slowly rose from her chair. A hand rose silently and struck her clean across the face. Iris stepped back, shielding herself once more in the shadows as the blow echoed throughout the room. "You incompetent, imbecilic, _worthless_ excuse for a human being! Get out of my sight before I end what menial work you are capable of accomplishing!"

There was a rush of stumbling footsteps, then a choked sob as the girl emerged from the room, face buried in her hands. One foot accidentally caught a cord from the nearby wall and brought her down to her knees. Whimpering softly, she tried to pull herself together, only to look up and see Iris.

Her mouth opened, though no sound came out—most likely from shock. Watery eyes slowly traveled up and down, taking in the lethal appearance of the unexpected visitor. Her mouth closed, then reopened. She slowly regained her voice, only to see a single black-tipped finger lift and press to equally black lips. The girl came to her senses almost immediately, pushing herself onto her feet and walking as fast as she could (but quietly as possible) down the hall and out of sight.

* * *

Maria DeLaine slowly lowered herself back to her seat with wintry regality, brushing the ivory-backed brush through her black curls. She would have to remember to fire that pathetic girl—after she won the competition, of course. A cold smile of satisfaction curled her lips. She could already smell the scent of freshly printed money…ten thousand dollars to be exact. Life was so perfect.

"Always so compassionate to your insubordinates?" a voice spoke from behind her, "I guess some things _never_ change, do they?"

Maria whipped around, eyes flashing across the room before she finally spotted the source of the intruding voice. As her uninvited guest stepped forward into the pale gold light radiating from the bulbs around the vanity, the older woman's eyes widened. She took a step back, hatred and shock mingled in her bronzed features.

"Hello, Mother." Iris murmured, "Did you miss me?"

"How did you get in here?" Maria replied, icy blue eyes narrowing from their shocked openness.

"Looking for some poor security guard to berate as well, then? No, no, Mother dear, I got in all by myself. I didn't need to dupe anyone into letting me through."

"Then you can turn around and leave, you disgusting wretch!"

"We always did have these sweet pet names, didn't we, Mummy?" Iris breathed, letting one foot step in front of the other, slow and purposeful steps that echoed across the tiled floor. "Wretch…slut…" each word was spoken as deliberate as the movements of her feet, "Freak… monster…_mistake_. That one was your favorite, wasn't it?"

She was a mere two feet from her mother, who stood frozen in place, features tight and eyes cold. "I wouldn't dream of leaving, Mother, not when I've gone through so much trouble to come see you…." Her lips curved up in a quiet smile, reaching up to brush aside some strands of hair that had escaped to fall in front of her face. That simply wouldn't do. She wanted her mother to see this…to see what she'd done.

"As you can see, I've brought you a Mother's Day present…I'm wearing the birthday present you gave me—my dear little mark of your affection, remember?" She gestured to the scars over her discolored iris. "I've never appreciated it until now, Mummy, but I must say that it rather suits me. I've found it refreshing to let the world see what a sickening, hateful bitch you always were, even to your own child."

"Shut your filthy mouth!"

"Oh, but I'm only speaking truth," Iris replied in wide-eyed innocence. Then she sprang across the room, forcing Maria against a wall. Wrapping a hand around a chunk of fabric, Iris forced a knife through the knit and into the wall, pinning the woman to her dressing room like a butterfly in a collection. "And I think it's time you started _listening_ to the truth, Mother."

"_HELP! Guards! Help!_" A resounding slap silenced her for a moment; Maria looked with tearing eyes at her daughter.

"Shh, shh, shh, Mother." Iris murmured, running a finger across her mother's lips, "I think maybe you should just stay quiet for a while. Let your daughter talk, Mummy, and then maybe we won't have to have anything unpleasant happen."

"What do you want, Iris?" she whispered, clearly pulling some fragments of her imperious demeanor back, to try and keep face. Some things really don't change with time.

"Using the first name to attempt and establish familial contact…" Iris said with a glint in her eyes, "Please, Mother, do have some originality; that's the oldest trick in the book. I mean, I know you're no spring chicken, but _really_…"

"What do you want?" she burst out, only to be slapped once again.

"Mind yourself, Mother dearest," Iris replied calmly, "Your manners are simply atrocious. Now," she continued, reaching into her belt and pulling out another knife. This one sported a blade nearly a foot in length; it was the longest and sharpest of her knives. Such a weapon would only be used for the most important, for the most perfect crime. If the truth were to be told, it distinctly resembled something that would be used in the most grotesque of horror films, something that would gut and flay a poor soul like a fish.

Which was precisely why Maria was stunned when Iris lifted it up and slowly began filing her nails with it…and continued talking without hesitation.

"Now then, you want to know what I want?" Iris asked calmly, "Truthfully, Mother, I don't want anything. Revenge…retribution, maybe? Well, I suppose that's something I might want. But I don't plan on getting it the same way as you might expect. You never gave me all the credit I really deserved, Mother. You never considered how brilliant I could really be when I chose to do so. But you will learn your lesson all too soon, and in ways you never, ever considered I could conceive. This will not merely pass once the night is done. You see, your guards and your manager will come to your room within the hour, only to find that Maria DeLaine is gone. And at the very least, they will not find you for the next few weeks. It may very well be no longer than a month, if our dear Batman is as good as they say he is. But believe me, it won't matter when they find you. I fancy they'll eventually identify you by your dental records…if you're lucky. Oh, don't look so horrified," she added in response to the look on her mother's face, "You should have been able to predict that much. After all…" she pressed to cold blade to the underside of her mother's throat.

"…I have twelve whole years of abuse to pay you back for, _Mommy_."

Maria looked like she wanted to scream, but the little tool in Iris' hand seemed to convince her that that was a singularly bad idea.

Iris pried the knife from the wall, slipping it back into a pocket on her calf before gripping her mother in a tight half-Nelson.

"Iris," Maria croaked, "You don't need to do this! Tell me what's wrong; I've got connections—I can help! You don't need to resort to—" She began to choke as Iris' grip tightened.

"Resort to this? Resort to this? Mother, dear Mother, this is not a resort—it's my very first option. You do not want me to resort to anything…it would hurt you much more than it would hurt me. Now come along, Mummy…we're going to go to someplace very, very special. You'll grow very close to it—it's where I'll be taking care of you."

The last thing Maria DeLaine recalled hearing was Iris' voice in her ear, before everything went black.

* * *

The first thing she felt upon awaking again was a dull weight on her wrists. Whatever it was, these bindings were cold and heavy, fitted securely around her joints to prevent any real movement. She tested what small ability she still possessed to move her hands, finding none. Her hands had been rendered completely immobile.

Her eyes slowly opened.

She was manacled to the wall. The chains were cold and heavy on her wrists. The room was massive—maybe a basement that was, at one point, built to be fully furnished and maybe even used as a room—perhaps even a bedroom. In fact, off to the far corner, pressed to the adjoining corners, was a pair of mattresses, stacked and covered with a threadbare blanket, and a single sheet underneath. To the right was a small sink and bathtub. Down the left wall ran a short cord, attached to a small lamp perched upon a heavily worn nightstand—something that one might find in a cheap garage sale. It was a modernized remake of Cinderella's cellar.

"Iris…? Iris, where are you?"

"Well, well, well," Iris' voice seemed to echo throughout the room like some apparition in a ghostly mansion, "Sleeping Beauty finally awakens." The steady _click_ of heeled boots on concrete preceded Iris' emergence from the shadows, wearing a cold smile. "I was beginning to think I'd made my grip too tight. And then where would the fun be?"

"Iris…Iris, please…baby, please…just tell me what's wrong…"

"What's wrong? Maria. You're asking me what's wrong? Look at my face." The woman tilted her head away and Iris reached out, sinking her nails into the model's face before tearing it around to face her. "I said, _look at my face_! Do you see what you did? You took a child—_your_ flesh and blood—and shoved a needle in her eye. You put that needle in my eye and forced your chemical garbage into my body. You tore away all that was human in this eye, and you replaced it with your _fake filth_. And then, as if it wasn't enough, you tore through my face. Tore through it all. Pulled the flesh off with your nails, with the _needle_. What monster—what _mother_ does this to her own child?"

It might have been more endurable if Iris had been screaming. At least then it would have been perfectly clear what she was feeling. Instead, her voice remained utterly calm, even when she was discussing the nature of her mother's crimes. The only emotion was in her eyes—blazing crystals of fury, nearly reminiscent of the eyes burning upon the face of a snake just before it strikes. "You ruined my face for life, Maria; you ruined my _mind_ forever."

Maria whimpered, eyes belching tears, and Iris merely blinked at the sight. "You didn't honestly believe I would allow you to live…without repaying me, did you?"

"Release me, Iris…" she whispered, trying once again for control, for power, "You don't have the nerve to do this to your own mother…"

"Mother?" Iris repeated, eyes dancing with twisted amusement, "_Mother_? Oh, Maria, you give yourself far too much credit. You are no mother. There is not one drop of maternal instinct in your surgery-crafted illusion of a body. You gave birth to me because nothing looks better on the front page of the newspaper than '_Model manages overwhelming fame with nurturing responsibilities of motherhood_'."

She nodded slowly, knowingly as she circled around her mother with calm steps, "And that's exactly what the papers reported, isn't it, Maria? And they kept reporting it for seven years. No one dared question why the child was always so withdrawn, why she was terrified of people. They passed it off as faults of the child, never of the mother. Of course not…Maria DeLaine is such a _perfect_ human being—flawless features, personable, stunning smile, and of course, let's not forget the fact that she was such a young mother. _Young indeed_." She spat, "Young…what age are you passing yourself off for these days, Maria? Early twenties? Possibly mid twenties at most? And these imbeciles keep buying it, swallowing all the lies without so much as a second glance. And for those who do question it…well, we all know how you handle competition, don't we?"

"You don't have it in you. You could never do harm to anyone else." The older woman whispered, "I know you…I know my own child. And you have never had it in you to lay harm to _anyone_. Play this game all you life, Iris." She was gathering back her imperiousness, her determination and her pride, "I know the truth. You are not capable of violence."

Iris slowly knelt down beside her mother, cupping her face in one hand and bringing it up to face her properly.

"I have endured years and years of torture from you, Mother." she murmured, "Years spent hating myself…looking at myself in the mirror and seeing only a disgusting, filthy, pathetic creature—not even a human being—that didn't even deserve to _live_ in this world. And all those years, I wondered why I was even born…if I was just some little object to be used for God's cruel entertainment. And yet, for all that I endured…for all that I suffered and wished—so many times, in fact—for death…things have changed since you left me, both you and Daddy. Things have most certainly changed. I graduated high school at twelve, entered college at barely thirteen—on my birthday in fact. And then, Mummy…something _wonderful_ happened." She leaned closer to her ear, "I fell in love."

"At thirteen? That's sick."

Iris' nails dug deeper and her mother shrieked. "Yes. And he was a genius, Maria. He showed me so much honor, so much respect, so much decency. He fed my mind, played the role of the good man. But I knew there was something else, as sure as I knew I hated you, as sure as I knew I would get you back one day. I knew he was more special than he let on. And do you know how old he was, Maria? How old this wonderful man was? Thirty-five years old. And he wanted me…for an experiment. But he also wanted me for myself—my mind…my soul…wanted me for the kindred spirit that he found me to be. Can you believe it? He wanted me for myself. You've heard of him, Maria…the Scarecrow? Jonathan Crane? Oh yes…my lover, my Jonathan. And do you know…tonight, you're going to help me make him proud, Mummy. We're going to show my professor just how much he's taught me…how much I love him. You're going to be my artistic masterwork, my symbol of love for him. A thing so much more beautiful in death than you were in life…won't that make you happy, Mummy?"

Mortification was etched all over her face as she looked at her daughter, "Thirty-five? You…you gave yourself to a thirty-five year old man, Iris?"

"Oh, no, no, no…he had to complete his experiments with me first, Mummy. For three years, I was his experiment—well, perhaps I shouldn't say I was _only_ his experiment. I was his assistant and confidant—the person he could share his most intimate secrets with, the only person he could share his _real_ experiments with, the one he could trust to share in his love of psychology. I was his companion and his only friend—just as he was only my friend." She smiled quietly, eyes gleaming dangerously. "You would know nothing of this sort of love, Mother. You've never been in love; you are not capable of it. But this…oh, it was absolute bliss. And he continues to love me to this day. You could never dream of the pleasure I get from him. He is the most brilliant man in the world…and he's all mine."

"He's sick, Iris!" Maria protested furiously, and Iris found herself smiling at the perversely maternal words coming from the woman's mouth. "Going after a sixteen year old girl like that…and for God's sake, he's insane! And you still whore yourself out to him every night so shamelessly?"

"There is more to a relationship than some physical carnality, Mother." she replied calmly, "So, so much more. There is intimacy not only on the physical side, but in the mind…in the spirit…in emotional bonds between us that no one could ever understand. Teaching someone, Mother…educating another person is a _very_ intimate affair. They must allow you into their mind, open their thoughts and allow the knowledge to pour inside. And he has taught me well…very well. He has taught me his ways…taught me to see the world for what it really is…for the _beauty_ and wonder that you can experience. Fear is the greatest beauty one will ever observe in their lifetime, Mama…especially when it is the terror you have wrought from another human being. They feed your soul…feed your very spirit with their anguish. The elation…the _wonder_ of witnessing a person writhe in their own nightmares…it is incomparable, truly. But," she added with a sigh, "I fear you cannot properly understand that unless you have witnessed it for yourself. And my Scarecrow…my sweet lover…he knew I would never truly understand him unless he brought me to see that world. And when I did…oh, it was _glorious_…

"And be assured that you are dealing with, while not the more merciful of the pair of us, certainly the least bloodthirsty—I will treasure your whimpers and trembles and pleas; he would delight in your blood. I'll delight in it too, but I like a little…oh, _foreplay_. He would love to torture you for what you've done to me, love to pay you back—but the story in the newspapers and the description of your mutilated body will be a love song for him. I'm sure he'll appreciate the gesture."

"Iris, for God's sake….you could have done so much better than him! What in hell has gotten into you? Don't you know how many men—"

"How many men would look at _this_?" she gestured to her eye, "And not shrink away in terror or disgust? How many men would touch this skeletal figure and shiver in pleasure, not distain? How many men would worship my insanity and darkness as though I were an angelic being, not some twisted, disgusting deviation of Nature? Do educate me, Mother dear…how many men would do such a thing?"

Her silence was answer enough. Iris smirked and released her face rather violently, walking casually around her chained body to a small table beside the wall, "That, Mother, is what Jonathan Crane does for me. He worships this skeletal figure as though I was Venus and he was some mere mortal unworthy of my graces. He loves me, wholly and completely. And I've been so cruel to him…stripped my sweet crow of his pride, humiliated him in our bed…and then we had that horrible fight. Oh god, that was such a wretched ordeal…and then he left me. It was my own doing, of course…and I thank him for doing so. It was agony, watching him walk away from me like that, but it was completely necessary. You see, once he left me to my own thoughts…to consider my future without him, everything suddenly became _so_ clear and vivid. I have no intentions of living without him. I am now certain that, to even _attempt_ such a thing would kill me."

"Iris…you…you need help. Let me go, sweetheart, and I can get you help…I can help you…"

"Help me, Maria? You're so eager to help your poor little Iris, now that she doesn't need you. How very strange. When I could have actually needed you, needed protection, you were always gone, or at least the one I needed protection from. Beatings, beltings, mutilation…oh, I'll give it all back, dear Maria. And Jonathan will be so proud of me. He might even thank the universe that you were made, so that I could dispose of you in such an elegant, devastating, passionate, thrilling, beautiful way. He'll be pleased to death, I'm sure."

"But Iris, _please_!"

Iris trembled, hand wrapped around a simple crowbar. "Oh. Oh, Maria. Thank you, Mother, thank you so much…"

"Wh…what?"

"You've given me the only gift you've ever given me. My first…my first victim's unanswered plea for mercy. Thank you, Mother; I feel like…like a real woman." Iris fingered the smoothed edge of the iron bar. "Now, where to start—after all, I can't have you trying to escape on me…"

"Iris….Iris, _please_…please have mercy…"

"Now you beg for mercy…just as I so often begged you for mercy. Where was your kindness and bleeding heart then, Maria, when _I_, your own child, needed it the most? Where were those pretty words when I was locked away in that miserable room? You do remember of course, don't you? That room that was covered, all four walls and ceiling in mirrors? All sizes and all shapes of mirrors…that room you would throw me into after every beating, so I was forced to stare at my bloodied, broken face for hours and hours, unable to look anywhere else without observing my hideous complexion? Well, Mother dear….now it is your turn."

With a snap of the fingers, light poured into the room.

* * *

All three surrounding walls were coated with mirrors—it didn't matter what size or shape, they were all here.

Lovely, gold-trimmed round mirrors from vanity dressers.

Cheap square mirrors from the local drug store.

A few mirrors that had been polished and primed for her modeling shoots, now hanging upon the walls, useless to her, torture to a distraught and bloodied child.

And for whatever space could not be properly coated with smaller mirrors, the walls had been covered in full length panes of reflective glass. No inch was spared.

It was a precise replication of that hated memory from childhood. Too precise, in fact…

Maria's eyes widened. Good god, how long had she been planning this?

"Now then…" the end of the bar slowly began to drift up her legs, over the stomach and chest with careful deliberation, "Where to begin…?" the iron object suddenly paused, and Iris smiled, "Well, well, well…it seems you've had a new surgery, Mummy…tell me…are you still sensitive?"

The bar came down upon her stomach with ruthless and deliberate force. A wail echoed throughout the room, nearly vibrating the glass. Iris smiled all the more.

"I guess that answers that question."

Maria coughed, spitting away a few specks of blood before she did her very best to glare at her daughter, "Release me, Iris…_now_."

"I'm not entirely sure if it has dawned on you, Mother…" she murmured, letting the bar rest against the nearby wall, "But you are hardly in a position to be making threats…"

One hand pressed two fingers underneath the older woman's jaw, jerking her face back up to meet two eyes—one blue as the Caribbean waters, the other poisonous gold, like a cobra.

"You threatened Jonathan." Iris breathed, "You threatened the one man in this world who loved me…who took me home when I came to his office, crawling on hands and knees because the fine gentlemen on campus left me bleeding and exposed in the middle of the university grounds…unable to walk—barely able to breathe, really. He took care of me…kept me safe and protected me at all costs—including that of his position at the university."

Iris sighed quietly, slowly kneeling before her mother, "And if you threaten him…you have also endangered the safety and protection of all the others in Arkham. My dearest, closest friends…the people who kept me safe from the guards, who protected me and befriended me from the moment I walked into the asylum."

"My sisters," a single nail pierced—slow and deliberate—into the skin around Maria's jaw, making her whimper.

"My brothers," a second nail drove deeper into her skin.

"And my fathers," a third sunk into the tender area above the jaw bone. "You threatened _all_ of them."

"You said earlier," Iris whispered, inserting a fourth nail with as much deliberation and calmness as the others, "That I was not capable of violence…that I was not capable of harming anyone or anything."

She leaned very, very close to her mother's ear. Her lips parted, releasing a low hiss of breath around her words.

"To protect my family…you have _no_ idea what I am capable of."


	27. A Blooming Iris

"_Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves."_

_~ Confucius_

Chapter 27: A Blooming Iris

Most people think that one of the most primal fears is a fear of the dark.

They are wrong.

When you stop to think about it—truly contemplate it in all its variations and the like—you realize it is not the _**dark**_ people are afraid of.

Blinding an individual, by way of a thick piece of silken cloth around the sleeping eyes before they awaken, only does so much. They may be deprived of sight, but that only brings the other senses into hyper-drive. What one sense cannot see, the remaining four will illustrate for the mind:

The cold smell of concrete lingering in the air.

The chill lingering in the air.

The low whistle of air creeping through cracked windows.

The gurgling pipes mounted into the walls overhead.

The weight of the manacles, hanging heavy on the wrists—no doubt leaving distinct bruises, perhaps even a patch of skin here and there rubbed raw by the iron.

The skin grows tender…_vulnerable_ by the moment. While there is nothing but the iron touching it, the nerves are at peace…the mind lulled into a false sense of security. For now, it can believe itself to be free from further injury.

But still, in the furthest corner of the human mind, there is always a sense of wonder…a morbid curiosity.

The _essence_ of fear, you see, is in its anticipation.

If one intends to see the beauty of terror unfurl in all splendor, one must allow _time_. One must allow the prospect of terror to fester…to _grow_…to take on a manner of all guises. That is, until the victim eventually _desires_ the horror—welcomes the consummation of all their darkest nightmares.

But that is a secret, private wish. The proudest of creatures will force that away, back into the furthest reaches of their mind. They will allow themselves to believe, even for a _moment_, they are safe.

It is not the _**dark**_ people are afraid of.

It is what might be _**lurking**_ in the darkness.

The lights in the room were gone, extinguished with the simple gesture of flicking a finger against the switch. Most never consider the noise created by such an action. But when you stopped to think about it—contemplate it, really—you begin to appreciate that steady, solid _clack_. To any other person, sitting in a room with others and preoccupied with their work, it is just another sound in a pattern of many that will follow on a typical day.

But to one deprived of sight, trapped in an impenetrable darkness, that simple _clack_ takes other forms.

Is it only the flick of finger against a light switch?

Or is it something more?

Some sort of creature—a mouse, a rat?—slipping down the wall and falling to the concrete floor. Or is it a bird, landing upon a makeshift perch nearby?

Two hours have passed since she was left alone in this room, blindfolded and deprived of one of the most important senses. Two hours—seemingly an endless eternity—since she had heard from her daughter, her captor…her tormentor.

"…Iris…?" she managed to breathe, calling out to the darkness. Her voice was little more than a whimper, a plea for mercy—for _pity_.

Oh, how often had she ignored such cries from her own daughter?

Far too long…and far too many a time.

The older woman suddenly cried out, her entire body convulsing as though it had been electrified. Her head tried to turn, to locate the object that had just made a mark upon her skin, only to remember she was blinded. There was pain…a dull pain—her upper arm? Lower arm?

What would she had thought—how would she have reacted—had she known it was nothing more than a little feather, touching her inner elbow?

In the darkness, Iris smiled coolly from behind a pair of night-vision glasses. Such an interesting reaction…

Her fingers neatly set the feather back on a small metal tray, located a good five feet from her mother's chained form. With her other hand, she gave the cart a short, purposeful shove.

The wheels creaked quietly on the stone floor, metal on concrete. It was barely enough to make Iris cringe, and yet her mother jerked as though it had been a shriek.

Next, two long fingers reached to the tray, lifting up a pin. It was a common item, really, lacking in lethality as much as the feather. It was the kind one would use in sewing; at most, the only pain it was capable of delivering was a dull ache.

She slowly maneuvered her fingers, pin held at a careful angle, between the iron manacle and the wrist imprisoned within its grasp. Even without the glasses, it would have been child's play to know where the skin was most tender. Her wrists were no stranger to the manacle's cruelty.

The pin found its mark and pressed _lightly_ into the skin.

A high, warbling shriek rang throughout Iris' ears, echoing clean down into the very fiber of her being and spreading sweet warmth throughout her body. There it was—that intoxication that she'd felt with the James Walters. It was almost numbing to the senses, and yet…she'd never felt so alive in her life.

Music…it was truly _music_.

"The first part of you that's actually tender. How cute. But don't worry, Mummy…the rest of you will be very tender indeed, very soon."

"Iris…" the voice—once so cold and soulless—cracked around her name, "Iris…please…"

She let her head fall back slightly, drawing in a slow, deep breath as she relished the simple plea that passed from her mother's lips. It was truly beautiful…truly magnificent.

Black boots slowly stepped back over to the wall, one finger lifting to flick the light switch once again. But the scarf around her mother's eyes remained. Why spoil the fun so quickly?

"Why didn't we ever have these times, Mother? These lovely, beautiful bonding moments that other girls get to have with their mothers? Why didn't we ever so that? Why didn't you love me very much at all?" she paused to stroll over and retrieve the crowbar—now with her mother's blood crusted along one edge, "I mean, it's _obvious_ that you're soulless…but didn't you like me for how quiet I was? How silently and obediently I took your blows? I tried to be the perfect victim, very good and submissive for you, so that maybe you would be pleased. I don't think you even noticed. So Mother—please don't be a good victim. Please let me hear each scream…it makes me so happy to see you finally suffering as you so rightly deserve."

"Iris, for the love of God—"

"Let us leave _God_ out of this, Mother. Don't you think that might be for the best? After all…you might actually give me the false impression that he exists if you start crying out to him now—you, who have scorned the thought of any power being above _you_, the great and invincible Maria DeLaine. The beautiful woman who has it all—money, power, prestige, a loving husband, a pretty little daughter…the whole world is wrapped around your finger. It's no wonder you never believed any being could be above you…but to start thinking about _God_? Let's not, Mother…I've spent enough time ridding my heart of Him. The great, kind and benevolent _Father in Heaven_…how many times did I cry out to him, begging him to help me…to save me and take me away from this place, from your cruelty, from Father's conditional love and approval? How many times did he turn me away? How many times did he ignore me and leave me to rot in this _hell_?"

She sighed softly, hefting the bar between both hands, shaking her head slowly, "A priest once told me…that God never gave his children more than we could handle. And I wondered…if that was true, why did he put me into a home where I would experience nothing but suffering? What did he expect me to do? How did he want me to handle this…overcome it?"

"To this day," she added quietly, holding the bar carelessly in one hand and letting it swing down to hit an already-broken bone, "I still don't know the answer to that question. After all…he never _gave_ me an answer."

The crowbar came down once again, this time in both hands. With the same posture and poise as one would strike a golf ball, the bar shattered the left ankle.

"Do you know," Iris continued, relishing the shriek of pain that followed, "that I still find it funny that you, _the_ celebrity mother, were so atrocious at your job. Still funny that you wouldn't know how to bandage a cut if your life depended on it; couldn't comfort a nightmare worth your sorry skin. I've had to get my mothering elsewhere, but I assure you, I got it. So thank you, I suppose—if you hadn't been so contemptible and disgusting, I might've never known how sweet a gentle, loving touch can be."

"You might be wondering just _where_ I received my mothering." She continued still, letting the crowbar scrape along the concrete, emitting a grating sound that had Maria practically convulsing in shudders, "Well, Mother, for all that you groomed me to loathe psychologists, I finally broke free of that conditioning. You remember, don't you? How my teachers would recommend that I attend counseling—because I was such a _self-mutilator_? And then you would send me to only _male_ psychiatrists…and during our hour-long sessions, you would simply sit me on the couch and proceed to educate me on your specific brand of _physical therapy_? It was quite repulsive, Mother…if I thought all those sexual encounters actually meant something to you, I might go so far as to diagnose you as a sex-addict. But I know better…they were just little toys to play with. You needed a quick fix, like some drug user, and they were there. Besides, you knew no one would disturb the doctor when he was treating a helpless little seven year old, right?"

"I absolutely _hated_ therapists after that, Mother." she sighed, shaking her head, "Seeing you like that…seeing how _easily_ they caved—those small, weak-minded men—to your body when it was my _mind_ in need of assistance…I vowed to never let myself into another psychiatry office again."

_Crack_. Another blow to the leg—the right knee this time—followed by another scream.

"Alas," Iris sighed softly, "In Arkham, I really had no choice in the matter. Group _and_ private therapy sessions were mandatory events, unless you were in the infirmary on your death bed. Which, despite my efforts, I failed to qualify for. But, I confess…I came to appreciate it. My dear Doctor Leland…she was always so good to me. Always so understanding, so caring…so _accepting_, once I finally allowed her a small glimpse into my world. Of course, I did not give her the full tour—thanks to you, my trust in people…well, shall we say that it has been somewhat…_affected_?"

She paused in the process of delivering another blow to the left leg, considering her thoughts for a moment before nodding to herself and following through with the swift _crack_. "However, I believe I can say I truly do love her. She has always treated me like her own—in fact, there were many nights, while I slept in my cell, when I would look up at the ceiling and _wish_….wish upon a little star that she was, truly, my mother."

She paused, titling her head slightly as she took in her mother's severely bruised and semi-broken body. With a calm nod, she reached down and tugged the blindfold away.

Blue eyes blinked repeatedly, adjusting to the light. As the head bowed, involuntarily, downward, those eyes widened, seeing legs with bones jutting out from beneath the skin, bruises already rising on the body, ugly and swollen. Her head rose, trembling, to meet her daughter's completely neutral expression.

"Do you hurt right now, Maria? Is it agonizing, to be beaten so horribly? To be treated like a boneless, soulless, feeling-less doll? It's horrifying to be at the mercy of the unmerciful. I should know…I'm glad you're learning, too. And do you know what? This is just the beginning, Maria…you're not going to die tonight. By the end of this little reunion, you won't be begging for death…you won't be able to. I might have fed you your own tongue by then…but you will want it, I assure you." Iris came over to crouch down beside her, looking at the beaten woman earnestly. "It's going to take a long time, Mummy. But don't worry. It'll happen all the same, I promise. You won't know what's worse, by the end…the actual torture at my hands, or the hours you'll spend, alone with your ruined face and body, in a lit room, covered in mirrors. I might start taking glamour photos of you, pinning them up so you can see what you'll look like at the end." Iris smiled softly. "See, Mummy? We're finally getting some time together. It's bonding; how could so many years gone by without us sharing like this?"

"Iris…let me go…please…"

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Mother." she whispered, "I waited many, many years for this…to have this time with you. And now…I intend to _relish_ it."

For a passing second, Maria actually wondered why one of Iris' hands was tucked behind her back. The next moment, she understood.

* * *

Executing a swiftness that would have made Pamela glow with pride, Iris plunged a letter opening into her thigh, deep enough that it stuck up untouched. The shriek that ran throughout the room was enough to threaten the poor mirrors. Iris could see them quivering, the glass nearly breaking, but they would stand tall and strong for her. Crimson blood leaked from the wound, both sides. The initial strike sent a shower over her hands. Blue and gold eyes examined the flow carefully.

"I confess you disappoint me, Mother," she said calmly, swiping her serpentine tongue over her stained fingertip, "Not the scream, admittedly—no, that was quite satisfactory. But I must admit…I did not expect this much blood. How could you have done all those things to me as a child—your own child, no less—and not have your blood run cold? For years, I believed that if you were cut, there was no blood. After all, if there is no heart, there can be no blood."

She lifted her hand up to eye level, examining it carefully, "Do you remember the first time I bled, Mother? When you tied me down to your bedpost and whipped me? I was three, wasn't I? Perhaps four…or it might have been on the actual day between the two years—you were always fond of giving me unique birthday presents. In fact…yes, I do believe it was on my fourth birthday. You weren't very happy with me, were you? I remember apologizing again and again to you…you see, I really hadn't meant to have that nightmare, Mother. I hadn't meant to wake up screaming in the middle of the night…hadn't meant to deprive you of your beauty sleep. I knew you had to look your best on my birthday—all those men that would be there, and I ruined it. I was so sorry for what I'd done…but my apologies meant nothing to you."

A truly twisted smile came to her face. "But…this just proves my point, doesn't it, Mummy? Here, I once thought you were invincible…untouchable, a demonic goddess of power—heartless, bloodthirsty power! You are nothing more than a façade! In fact, you are so much the façade that it has taken over what the woman might have been. There is nothing here…absolutely nothing but a disgusting corpse, twisted and rotten from the inside and outside!"

She laughed softly, "And to think…once I believed _I_ was the rotted corpse…" one hand drifted down, wetting the fingertips in blood once again, "All this blood…were you always this small, Mother? When I was younger…you always seemed so tall, so strong and powerful and cold…so untouchable."

Her head lifted, a nearly manic gleam in her eyes, "But I was young and manipulated. I have seen truth in its purest form…there is only one being so powerful…so deserving of fearful reverence—save from myself, you see. My Master knows I do not fear him…that was probably the reason he became so fixated on experimenting with me."

"M-Master?" Maria choked out before she could stop herself.

Iris nodded, smiling dreamily. "Oh yes, Mother…he is my Master. My lover, my teacher, my friend, my Master, my Scarecrow. And I am his—I have always been his. We possess each other fully; love each other in ways your pathetic, feeble conception of emotion could never dream of knowing. And I'll return to him. I'll always return, as I hope he'll always return to me—if only he can forgive me…forgive me for my betrayal and my cruelty. But I won't return to him just yet…not before I've made a name for myself…not until I've given him something to be proud of me for. You are only the first, Mother…just one to begin with. I'll make all my mistakes on you, my miscalculations of cuts and sizes, my letting of too much or too little body, my incorrect assumptions about sedatives and hallucinogens. You'll be my finest work, a beautiful sculpture of mistakes and petty hate…and all to my Master's glory. This will be my gift to him…an embodiment of my regret for abandoning him. I could never truly abandon him…not after all those times he took me in and kept me safe."

"Please, Iris, please, let me go! If you do, I promise I won't press charges, but please, _please_!"

"Oh, Mother, you are too, too ridiculous. Why would I let you go when you've just clearly demonstrated that you'll only yell at me and hurt my feelings?" Iris offered her lips in a pout. "No, Mother, you and I need to _bond_ a little more. I think we'll do some of the things I like to do, instead of the things you like to do…you might learn something. Then again, maybe I'll learn from you…we both like experimenting with _chemicals_, don't we?"

"Iris—"

"Scream all you'd like, Mother." Iris said idly, turning back to her tray, "No one can hear you…not from where we are."

"Iris…" there was a small glimmer of wonder, of terrified curiosity blooming within those hateful eyes, "Where…where are we?"

"Ah, Mummy, I _knew_ you would ask sooner or later! You simply needed the proper motivation…and I believe knowing you will not leave here alive is incentive enough, don't you? You see, that is _precisely_ why I can't let you go. But since I have no intention of letting you leave…I think I can gladly inform you as to where we are. Although, I quite surprised you haven't recognized it by now…yet, then again, I'm not. I mean, let's be realistic here. You couldn't remember anything that you had not immediately renovated, could you?"

"Iris, tell me! Tell me where we are!" her voice grew high, nearly shrill in desperation. It was breathtaking…watching her mind scramble for control, seeing her soul clutch at the threads upon which her life was hanging.

She leaned closer, "Why…it's our old house, Mummy. Not the new establishment you constructed on the other end of town, but the one I was born in. Don't you remember?"

Maria fell silent.

"Isn't it beautiful, this room you kept me in for years? No one would recognize poor little Iris' room in the cellar, would they? They imagined, I'm sure, a pink playroom, stuffed toys awaiting love and affection, a canopy bed fit for a princess waiting to carry a sweet child to midnight dreams. And they saw that, certainly. But did they ever notice that year after year, the bed was never slept in? That the toys were untouched by longing hands? No, they did not notice that…not when there was little Iris, on a mattress on the floor, five flights below that. Do you remember, Mother?"

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "And can you imagine, Mummy, how I took out all of that? Stripped the walls clean of the pink wallpaper, donated the toys, shredded the canopy curtains I was never permitted to touch? It was a bit of a fit of temper, I suppose…but all the same…they served only as horrible reminders. Just like the dolls. You remember the dolls, don't you, Momma? Those three pretty little things that you gave me—a gift from mother to daughter. Such a sentimental gift…and you were sure to do it in public, where all could see. But you knew what they would become. You knew what they would do to me. Here I was, seven years old…my face bandaged, my eye swollen and aching from the surgery to save my sight…and you presented me with those dolls on the same day as the bandages were removed. I would look at myself in the mirror…only to see upon my face a distortion of what those dolls had been granted. Did you know then what I would eventually do to those dolls, Mother? I doubt you did…you never paid my mental state much mind."

"Iris," Maria said quietly. "Let me go."

Iris slapped her hard across the face. "Let you go? So willful! No, Mummy, you and I have to break you of that habit…you're going to learn to beg."

Her mother winced from the blow, but looked back at her, eyes bright and defiant. Suddenly, her feet—broken ankles and all—swept out, catching Iris by surprise. She fell to her side, her wrist catching the blow rather hard. She glared at her mother.

"I said, release me, Iris…and I said to do it _now_." She swallowed hard, "You don't have it in you to kill anyone—least of all, your own mother. If you had any sort of backbone, you would have done this _years_ ago. But you've been too busy whoring yourself out to a man well over twice your age. You…you filthy creature. How any man can look at you and feel anything less than disgust is beyond me. But then again, if he takes you in the dark, I'm sure that's better than having to actually look at what he just fucked. I hope you haven't convinced him to have your child, Iris…God only knows what that…filthy, deplorable cretin would look like, coming from _your_ body."

"Shut up…" she whispered, her voice low and dark. She meant to keep control, but just as Jonathan knew where to push her pleasure buttons, her mother knew all too well where to push her anger and rage buttons. And she wasn't done yet.

"Have you shown him everything, Iris?" Maria continued, voice filled with remnants of her pain, but they were overshadowed by that horribly familiar contempt and disgust for her child, "Have you shown him _all_ your scars, told him every secret from your broken heart? Or have you been hiding some secrets from him, for fear that he would see you for the sick, depraved bitch that you are?"

Iris wanted to lunge for her and grate her throat apart, shred by shred, with her nails, but sudden calm and control washed over her like a bucket of water. She knew how to change this. Hadn't she considered it? This was a minor setback.

"Okay," Iris murmured quietly, getting to her feet. "We'll start early. Remember, Mother, you only have to take it back to make me stop. You only have earn my forgiveness. Sound good?"

Iris slowly picked up a metal device and came to kneel before her mother. Maria attempted to kick again, but Iris quickly strapped her ankles to the wall. "And just think…this opens that door I came out of. I wonder what I could do with that, Mummy. Now just sit still…remember, all you have to do is be forgiven."

Iris slipped off on of Maria's shoes and held up her shiny tool. "Recognize this, Mother? I bet you do. You only used it on me frequently."

It was a corkscrew.

Iris jammed it into Maria's instep and began to twist.

* * *

The pain was excruciating. Horrible and nauseatingly painful…enough to make a person want to scream and shriek and beg for mercy…

…but Maria DeLaine had suffered and subjected her body to surgery after surgery, starved herself to keep her youth, sweated blood and tears for her career. Her little brat of a child was not going to get the best of her. Not this easily.

"Tell…tell me, Iris…" she hissed, "When that _scarecrow_ of a professor strips you because he needs to—" she hissed sharply at another twist, "—to get himself off…does he tell you how much he _loves_ you?"

At the look in her daughter's eyes, she smirked in spite of the pain, "I thought so. And you believe him, don't you? You stupid, pathetic child. You think that he would ever love some_thing_ like you? This decrepit, repulsive, miserable skeleton of a girl—if you can even call yourself female. What have you to offer him from either the top or bottom, Iris? A flat, skeletal chest and a core that is _hardly_ sacred, not to mention its been scarred and pitted more times than a construction site."

"From _you_, you miserable bitch…" Iris snarled, twisting it all the more. A cry escaped her mother, but not the scream she wanted her to give…she was gaining back her control. Iris could feel herself losing control by the second…this was _not_ supposed to happen.

_**You're losing it.**_

"Tell me…who gave you those bruises, Iris?" her eyes gleamed knowingly at the way Iris froze, "Who put those marks on your neck? Hmm? Your _loving_, precious Scarecrow—is that the one who tried to throttle you? What's to stop him from completing the job next time, Iris? When did he do it? Did he get tired of you as a bed partner and decide to finish off the job personally? He'd probably get more out of your rotting corpse than when you were living and breathing."

_**You're letting yourself slip—don't listen to her.**_

"It wasn't him…" she whispered—but that was merely a half-truth. It hadn't been Jonathan Crane…he would never have laid a hand to her…but Scarecrow was a different story.

* * *

"_Tell me you enjoy this…tell me you __**love**__ it. Say it now, little girl."_

"_No…no, please…please get away from me! I won't do it again…I promise—Professor, please—"_

"_The good professor isn't available. It's just you and me, little girl. No one can help you—now, either say you like it, or __**apologize**__!" the last word was little more than a snarl._

"_No!"_

_Her hand rose quickly, striking across his face. Black eyes flashed red with an accompanying snarl. One hand pulled back from her throat, drawing away only to lunge back, to shred her skin and veins, to make her bleed out for—_

_Her hand struck him again. The blow resounded throughout the room._

_The man's body trembled violently, and then he stumbled away from her, half-crawling to the other side of the room, away from her with one shaking hand clutching his face._

"_He would have killed you…" he whispered, "He would have killed you…"_

* * *

Iris rose to her feet slowly, trembling. She left the corkscrew inside her mother—thought to spit on it, in fact, in the hopes that it would become infected. But she did not.

He'd tried to kill her. He'd tried to kill her. The simple fact resounded in her head. He'd tried to kill her.

_**Don't let her win…not now.**_

Her body moved mechanically, reaching over in silence to grasp the third and last object on the tray: a dagger, seven inches long and at least two wide.

_**Do it.**_

She turned back, the blade in her raised arm, face blank and emotionless. The blade felt good in her hand—solid, honest and true. It knew what it was meant to do. It knew what she _wanted_ it to do. Never would it shy away from its duties. It was eager to please, always eager to obey.

_**Cut her. Rip the whore open. **_

That hateful, disgusting creature chained to the wall barely had time to scream before the knife came down.

_**Let her show just how much she bleeds.**_

Iris knew nothing but movement, but the steady and unyielding rhythm into which her body fell. She did not need to think, only allow herself to move. She did know enough to not kill her mother—no, that would be too easy. Death was an escape, a reprieve. And this…this _bitch_ did not deserve such compassion.

_**Slice her. Repay her cruelty—no mercy.**_

In spite of herself, her mind drifted far away. It was true, Jonathan had shown her more love, more understanding and care and honesty in the past five years than she'd ever received before in her life; but what (if anything) was there that would force him to keep his temper next time he was enraged with her? The next time she tried to get close—to get inside…just like that time?

When her hands were covered with blood, Iris stopped. There was nothing more to be done here, not now. Vengeance could wait. Her lust for blood could be sated later. Right now, there were more important matters to address.

She dragged the sniveling, broken woman back into an upright position, using an additional pair of chains to keep her arms upright. We wouldn't want her to bleed out so easily, would we?

Without a word, Iris left the room to think.


	28. While Your Lips Are Still Red

**A/N: The content in this chapter, as well as Chapter 27, belongs to both myself and Charlotte A. Cavatica. Thank you.**

* * *

"_Blessed are the hearts that can bend. They shall never be broken."_

_~ Albert Camus_

Chapter 28: While Your Lips Are Still Red

Her pacing was erratic, something that one would expect from a person who had been previously institutionalized. Which, of course, made perfect sense why she was doing it. Some things could not be cured. Some things were simply inborn, never to fully leave the mind or the body, despite all attempts to the contrary. Madness was one of them. She was born into madness, in chaos and discord—it was her birthright.

Her hands ran through her hair, down her face, over her arms—clothed or bare—even down her sides…eyes wide then narrow, wild then somber. Her heart pounded violently one minute, then slow—almost too slow. She wanted to scream, she wanted to cry; wanted to throw herself against the wall, pound it until her hands were raw and ripped; wanted to curl up in a ball, cry or sleep. Wanted to do so many things—too many things…

Her hands were cradled in her face, then in her hair again. This process repeated over and over—an erratic, uncontrollable pattern that she found herself trapped within, perhaps of her own doing, perhaps not. Her body rocked to and fro, chest heaving with low, hoarse sobs.

Tears.

She felt cold and wet tears slipping down her cheeks, pooling down her shirt. She shivered as the cold liquid droplets made their way down the crevices of her breasts. Suddenly, she looked down at her hands…the blood on her palms faded to a dull pink. The dark crimson stains were elsewhere—smeared all over her face, neck, arms, clothing, in her hair…

She forced herself onto her feet; her knees quaked and wavered, but held their own long enough for her to take the few, short steps to the bathroom. She stumbled once, then twice, almost falling into the shower—clothes and all—but she steadied herself. Forcing her lungs to draw in a few long, deep breaths, one hand remained against the wall, keeping her body upright, while the other ventured down for the hot water.

And then she stopped.

She couldn't even bring herself to wash away the blood…not yet. This was such a blessed reminder—a testament to her strength, to her power and control. She felt cleansed, standing here covered in her mother's blood.

She felt…like a goddess triumphant.

And yet so utterly dull inside.

There was nothing inside her. This body was an empty, hollowed shell. She was triumphant in establishing dominance over that loathsome creature chained below in this house—this establishment that held nothing but painful memories. But what did that leave her? Vengeance was only so sweet when there was another there to share your delight, to join you in your victory.

And the one person she wanted there, more than anything...was gone.

She did love him…she loved that man more than the very gift of life itself. He _made_ life worth living….until he had abandoned her.

But she had abandoned him first…hadn't she?

She felt sick. She felt sick with loneliness—an emotion she had once scorned as insignificant and pathetic, and now it was threatening to overwhelm her completely.

He had tried to kill her…she gave him everything, and he had tried to kill her in a moment of fury—the result of trying to get him to open his heart to her in a _fraction_ of the way she had allowed him to do to her.

Why couldn't he have understood what she was trying to do for him? Why didn't he see how much she…?

How much she loved him…just how desperately she had fallen in love with him…and how it had set her free? Why didn't he see that?

She felt tears prick the corners of her eyes. They were hateful tears—tears for what she had lost…tears for the knowledge that it could very well have been for naught…

"Iris?"

She almost—_almost_—burst into sobs at the sound of his voice, crumpling to the floor like a paper doll at his call of her name. Iris's body rattled with her gasps, and suddenly nothing mattered anymore…not him, not her, not the secret behind the door, not her mother in her basement nor the punishment she was going to receive, punishments she had received for threatening Iris' beloved family, her lover and mentor. None of it mattered—she didn't care if he knew. Nothing would make him love her enough to protect her from himself. He had already proven that once.

Hadn't he?

"Iris?" his voice was clearly stunned, startled with the intensity of her reaction. Why he was here, what he had intended to say or do to her…it didn't matter, at least for one moment.

It wasn't as though she needed him to explain. She was his student, his closest apprentice and assistant—the person he knew better than anyone else in this world. She knew perfectly well why he was here. He had read about Maria DeLaine's untimely disappearance in the evening paper. He was probably here to ensure that she hadn't done anything desperate or reckless. And he'd found Iris, covered in blood and dissolving onto the floor in hysterics at the mere sound of his voice.

He came over to her, and she tore at him with her nails until he backed off. Once she got her sobbing under control, she began to speak, a shaky whisper as thundering to her as the loudest crash.

"You strangled me," Iris breathed, chest heaving with dry gasps. "You put your hands around my neck and tried to crush the life out of me. You tried to kill me, and I love you, and you tried to kill me…you wanted me dead, wanted it so much that it left a mark on me. You left marks of hate on me, and she _saw them_, and she knows you tried to kill me, even though you say you love me. You did it anyway…you tried to kill me, and you could do it again, and I love you, but I don't want to die, and I trusted you, and you tried to kill me…kill me with your own hands…"

"Iris—"

"NO! No, don't…don't touch me! I said, let me go! LET GO!"

Her screams were high, nearly shrieks. He'd be lucky if no surrounding neighbors happened to hear those horrid sounds—shrieks of agony that drove dull blades into his own heart. It was hard enough, having heard them once when she was merely a child, when he was tending to her wounds that those cretins at the university had carved into her. But to know that those screams, those cries of anguished sorrow…that they were directed at _him_, because of him…was she truly beyond repair this time? Was this a result of him leaving her? Abandoning her in a state of complete distress?

He forced himself to calm down. The first matter of business was to soothe away her stress and hysteria…no matter how much he doubted such an accomplishment to be possible.

"Iris, please…please just listen to me…"

"Get away from—STOP!"

For a man with thin, sinewy muscles and little more to his build, Iris couldn't deny that his strength was frighteningly impressive. In mere swift motions, he'd hoisted her from the ground, barely wincing at the nails clawing madly at his chest, arms, face…wherever she could reach. He deposited her on the bed—oh God, she knew this bed, she knew his room—where, in another movement, he grasped her around the wrist, forcing her to look at a small but deep wound—an off-circle shape that might confuse some, but they both knew it was the old wound of a needle, driven into her body in a heedless act of unnecessary violence.

"Look, Iris—I said, _look_! Have I not proven I can heal whatever wound I place upon you? Have I not proven my benevolence and love for you over and over again?"

"How do you intend to fix it when you kill me next time? The next time I displease you, how do you intend to heal _that_ wound, Jonathan? You can't!" tears pooled in her eyes and down her face, "If I can create such anger in you that you would kill me…that you would be so filled with enough rage that you desired to strangle the life from me…to crush my throat, break it in half…" her words were interrupted with uneven sobs, "If I can fill you with enough hatred and loathing for me that I would move you to throttle me, how much can you possibly love me, Jonathan Crane? I want to be more…I do want to know that I am more than a mere toy which you profess to love and trust—I do! But how can I believe I am so worthy and deserving as that when my love would hate me so much? I love you, I adore you, respect you, revere you, and even idolize you. I lust for you, care for you, trust you with my heart, body and soul without a second thought! I would destroy any who tried to lay a hand of harm to you, even if it meant slaughtering the Batman himself, Jonathan. And you? You have tried to choke the life from me—did you want to watch the light die from my eyes, Jonathan? Would you have derived pleasure from hearing my choked gasps, from seeing my hands clutch feebly at your arms, eyes and voice begging you breathlessly to stop, to spare me…and then would you have rejoiced when my corpse lay beneath you, all breath and life alike strung slowly and carefully from my body? Would you?"

She could hardly breathe. It was a miracle that she could even speak as well as she was. All she could do now was collapse, feebly claw at him, all the while sobbing and dreading his answer.

Jonathan swallowed thickly. How could he respond? Surely, she wanted to hear that he would feel no triumph in killing her, but would that be true? There was always a little flush of delight that came with ending a life, with seeing an experiment brought to its inevitable, logical conclusion. Would that guilty, horrid flush follow him after he had killed the angel of his life? How could he know, unless he risked everything to find out? And that pleasure would not remain past the first moments of her death, if it would exist at all.

And afterwards…it would be too late.

"How could you say such as thing, Iris?" he asked hoarsely. "Do you doubt me so much? I would never feel delight in having harmed you—I do not take pleasure in seeing your blood. The madness you claim to love me for is the madness you curse. I have spent too many years alone, too many years hiding myself to so easily be exposed. And…Iris, please try to understand. I begged you, _begged you_, to stop and you would not. In that moment, I could see the gleam of my grandmother's horrid eyes in your beautiful face, and I knew that you would abuse my trust and take advantage of me. I snapped, Iris, and please accept that I am sorry, but I was out of my mind…I was completely lost. I would not take pleasure in destroying you—I cannot destroy you. In the instant I saw what I had done, I stopped and tried to revive you. Please, please know what I did I did out of self-preservation. _Animal instinct_, Iris; please understand me!"

"And how many times will I reduce you to _animal instinct_?" she sobbed into her arms, her upper body twisted away from him. "How many times will I cross the line and invite _him_—not you, my professor, but your demon, your bloodthirsty avenger—to repay me with violence?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "I don't know, Iris—but I am a man! Not a mere animal! I can reason, I can think! Please; my animal may over come me but my human will always save you! I don't want your pain, Iris—take off these hands if they hurt you! I beg you, protect yourself against me by any means you deem necessary, but do not place all your trust in me! I cannot…_cannot_ say that I will never again harm you. I may have pain to cause you yet. But I mean none of it, none at all! Please, tell me you can believe that? Tell me you will not go into a dangerous situation without being armed with knowledge that your intimacy to me reveals all: the demon and the redeeming angel. Neither can be ignored, even if one is deeply preferred. Please, Iris, don't make me protect you from myself. The only way to do that is to be gone from you."

_**NO!**_

"No!" she screeched, hurling herself suddenly into his arms, for once united with the unheard demands of her demon, of her madness. "No, Jonathan, no, you are never leaving me again! Never again, do you understand? I'll _kill_ myself before I let you do that—I can't live without you! But why do I need to be protected from you? Why can't you simply let me in?"

"Why would you _want_ to be let in?" Jonathan finally burst out. A dam seemed to shatter, collapse entirely, foundations and all, with her words and her motions. All these years—thirty-nine years that he had spent building those walls, protecting himself at all costs…it was all going to waste. She wanted it—but why would she ever _want_ it—want _him_?

"Why do you so strongly desire to be let in—to see the ugliness that lies within me, Iris? Why must you break me down this way—why must you destroy me, heart and soul and mind, and do it so shamelessly? What could possibly entice you to witness the depraved, miserable creature that dwells within me? Why, Iris, for the sake of my sanity, I demand to know WHY?"

"Because _I love you_," she replied, tears standing out in her eyes as she screamed right back at him, her body abruptly throwing itself from the bed, drawing herself up to its complete and full height as her eyes cried and blazed back at his. "Because I love you, and I want to know what it is I love!"

Jonathan gripped her by her upper arms and wrenched her toward him, voice panicked, sorrowful, angry. "What I am? _**What I am?**_ I am a monster, Iris! A demon, a horrific monstrosity! Don't…don't let me force my ugliness on you! You'll look away in disgust—you, the only woman I have ever desired as I do! You can say you will not, now, but when you have seen? You'll wish I had let you alone, left you to be as you are! Do not ask for this, Iris, because once I give it I cannot protect you any longer! Not from my hideous nature, not from anything about me!"

"Damn it all, Jonathan, I said let me in! I love you, no matter what you are! Let me prove to you that I am unafraid! Let me inside, let me see, and I swear I'll love you no matter what!"

"No, Iris!" his hands convulsed, involuntarily shaking her by the shoulders, "I will not infect you! I will not pollute and poison you this way! There is nothing within this skeleton but infectious, disgusting, revolting madness…a twisted and corrupted soul—diluted so many times by a heartless family, an ice cold and unfriendly society, and none to care for such a mangled corpse! For God's sake, Iris, for _my_ sake! Do not seek this out….please, please…just be happy with what you have. Can you not be content with what I have given you?"

She shook her head violently, "NO! No, I can't and I won't be satisfied with only this. You and I have never, ever settled for half, Jonathan! And I won't start now. You sought out and dug into the darkest trenches of my soul until you found _this_!" she pointed furiously at her eye, "And _this_," her nails all but shredded her clothes, to bare the ugly scarring beneath, "I want to see that in you! You have broken me and destroyed me over and over and over again…and I want to know when it ends! How many times do you plan on destroying my heart?"

"I intend _no such thing_," he thundered, brow knitting in anger and frustration. "I do not wish to destroy your heart! Would that I could show you everything; that I could be as equal and fair in my exposure as you have been to me! But Iris, you are beautiful, celestial, a goddess from start to finish! You are so beautiful—your scars angelic, your marks and scratches delicate tendrils of silver and crimson! Why can't you understand? You compare your insides to mine—gold to pus, and you claim they are alike! You ask when it ends? It ends now! Can't you see how I'm trying to protect you from myself, from further anguish I might cause you?"

"You're causing me pain _now_," Iris replied. "You're causing me pain because you're not letting me in! Let me in, Jonathan—let me see! If it's truly pus, if you're truly infected, I'll cure you! I'll be careful! But I need to see the man I love! I need this, Jonathan, if you never allow me anything else, allow me this and I will not betray you! I promise you on _my life_, I will never betray you again! I will never abandon you—my loyalty to you is unconditional! Please, just allow me to see you—_all_ of you! Grant me this and, if nothing else, grant yourself a little insurance that I will not abandon and betray you after witnessing your bared soul!"

"I cannot trust that!"

The words hadn't been intended that way…he hadn't meant to say that…but as he looked at the frozen expression on her pale face, he knew he'd gone too far this time. Her face, her eyes, her entire demeanor…it all was weighed down, etched from top to beginning with one emotion:

Hurt.

"You cannot trust that?" she repeated quietly, "You cannot trust that I would not betray you…I who have enslaved myself, whored myself out for you…been cast out from society, institutionalized in the most deplorable place known to mankind—_built_ by mankind, to add insult to injury. I who have returned to you time and time and time again. I who have broken you from that miserable prison at many costs. I have witnessed your tears and embraced them. I have seen your shameless weakness and tended to it. I who have given you nearly every fantasy I could possibly wring out of you—given it to you with no shame or hesitation again and again. I who have promised you my heart, my soul, my body…I who have sworn my allegiance in every way I know how. I have forced you to show me part of your past, and I have welcomed those dark, hideous memories with no disgust or horror, only love and acceptance. And you cannot trust that I would never, ever betray you again? I have made my mistakes, Jonathan…and it was agonizing punishment, watching you walk away from me, leaving me there to cry and weep for you. I have been punished…I have learned. Can you no longer trust that?"

Jonathan paused. He loved her—but did he trust her? _Could_ he trust her; did he even have such a thing as faith living within him anymore? Once he had thought that it was all gone, but with Iris in his life, he had cause to doubt that it was so. Did he truly believe that she would never betray him? Did he truly believe that no desperation so stinging, no agony so brutal would drive her from him?

"I…am capable of things that you cannot imagine," he said. "Acts that would disgust you. Brutality the likes of which you have never before experienced. And I commit them, happily. You see genius and righteous retribution—that is a lie. All I am is evil, with a small island of good. You have taken refuge on that island but you do not understand the sea around you. If you venture out, I fear the enormity will overwhelm you. You are good, Iris, pure and decent and honorable. I am not…your very essence would push your away from me, even if part of you still loves me. If I cast this off…I would not be Jonathan for you. I would not even be Scarecrow…I would be a beast, horrible and great. I cannot endure my life without you, and so I cannot let you see…"

He turned from her, exhausted and nearly broken. From the corner of his eye, he could see her hands rise, trying to touch him. His shoulder jerked away the moment he felt her fingertips lay upon him. She drew back slightly, and he could hear her draw in a short breath. He knew her next words would be that of resignation. She had heard his own testimony to what kind of animal he was…she had no desire to see it, to witness it for herself. She would leave…like so many before her.

He would miss her.

"You think far too kindly of me," she whispered, "If you think I am any different. Look at me, Jonathan…" she whispered, gesturing to the blood covering nearly her entire upper body, "I injure, I beat, maim, mutilate, all without a second thought…and I will kill with my bare hands with just as much consideration—with as much _delight_—as I torture. Have you so quickly forgotten what I am capable of? I have resurrected and crafted the worst possible terrors that would ever come to be within any mind—mine or that of those who have done me wrong. And I have forced these images to linger, to remain with them—in their sleep, in their wake, when they are between sleep and consciousness…and I have done it and watched with the most twisted and deprived pleasure a human being can feel."

No.

He would not hear this. He would not give himself hope.

"I'm not discussing this anymore, Iris. Stop this right now...before you find yourself too deep into this mess."

"Mess, is it?" she whispered, yet her voice was utterly audible over the whistling wind, stirring around the two figures on the balcony—a place they now found themselves, letting the wind soothe away the fury and mixed emotions of their plight, "_Mess_? You speak so lowly of that which has given you freedom, Professor."

Black eyes narrowed slightly on that sharply crafted face, nearly a glare if not for the fact that he could never truly fix her with a glare, "Do not praise it so naively, Iris. You are young...still free..."

"Free? Free? Professor, look at me! I am trapped...locked away in this miserable prison called sanity...or at least I was, until tonight."

"You still have a chance. Turn back and forget this...forget me."

"No."

"Do NOT test me on this, child!" his clawed hands grabbed her shoulders, clenching and tightening with the inane thought of whether or not his grip would bruise his student's skin, "You do not know the price—more importantly, you do not know me! I am a murderer, Iris...a monster and demon that needs only the most minute of grievances inflicted before it shall rip and mutilate and massacre. I have no conscience...no soul...what humanity I once possessed was destroyed long ago. Now, leave me...I will not infect you any more than I already have done."

"If you truly had no conscience...no morals or ethics...if all humanity was truly and completely shred from your soul..." her eyes met his, calm, unblinking, "You would have snapped my neck seconds ago. Snapped it, killed me and left my corpse here…left me to become nothing more than a once-pleasant memory."

He felt his blood convulse within his veins—one moment, frozen cold, icy; the next, boiling hot, searing, white-hot flames of life coursing through his body. Heaven save him...there it was within those pale depths—a calm, cold, calculating manipulation of the human race which had restrained her for so long...and the deadly flicker of madness—no inhibitions, no restraints...only passionate, insanely radiant madness.

"We were made for each other, Jonathan," she whispered, her hand—spidery touch, lethal nails, all joined to form her beautiful hand—rose to touch his face, warm skin wrapped around what most assuredly had to be the coldest blood, "Would you really throw away the missing half to your soul? Would you force me to endure the same fate?"

The weakest rebellion made its final stand within him, "I cannot destroy you..."

"For the innocent, lovely creature you think I am," she whispered, "You forget that I am as much a monster as you. This blood—this blood which you see me covered in, Jonathan...this is not mine."

His hands tightened around her, but this time, it was to pull her close, crashing their mouths together as he tried to force every part of him that she had infected down into her, to join their very souls and bind them together forever.

What was he thinking? How could he have thought he could destroy her? This lovely, insane creature whose savage heart was at black, hateful, and deadly as his own?  
She was his...yes, his...all his, only his...

He felt that dark mouth smile against his lips, white teeth suddenly sharp against his thin mouth, "Two of a kind, my love...two of a kind."

Seizing the woman around her wrist, Jonathan easily lifted Iris to her feet, straightening her out of the kiss on the balcony, and brought her out of the moonlight—out of the view of _any_ who might dare to witness her in all her triumphant power.

Iris tugged back, providing him with only token resistance; to this, he pulled her into his arms and pressed her to a wall in the bedroom. He locked her in, hands planted into the walls at either side of her, their bodies only grazing, not yet pressed together.

"You are a tease," he growled into her ear.

"You're too easy. You never jump at something that small—mere _words_, I might add. Feeling desperate, Professor?"

"Suffice it to say I am somewhat sensitized at this moment, my dear student." He leaned down and licked up a stripe of her neck, amused by her attempt to squash her shudder in its formative state. "You know that I do not tolerate misbehavior…"

"We're not in the classroom, Professor—out here, we're on the same level," Iris replied, sliding her left leg up his, slowly drawing her naked inner thigh along the fabric of his borrowed trousers. "That is, until one of us wins, for the evening."

"You'll beg for it," her lover hissed into her mouth, pushing her firmly against the wall, their bodies at a long, full press, hot to cool, angular skeletons similar, sharp, and well-defined beneath skin and clothing.

"Not likely," the woman replied, biting his lower lip almost hard enough to hurt. "You're mine."


	29. Rebirth

**A/N: The content in this chapter belongs to both Charlotte A. Cavatica and myself. Thank you.**

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"_The face of a lover is an unknown, precisely because it is invested with so much of oneself. It is a mystery, containing, like all mysteries, the possibility of torment."_

_~ James Baldwin_

Chapter 29: Rebirth

Iris felt herself slam up against the wall, her eyes forced to stare into dark, lustful ones, "The same level? I think you are deluding yourself, Miss DeLaine. I am still the teacher, and the only thing you're getting is a lesson in manners, which you are severely lacking. Consider class in session…now." He grabbed both her wrists. Trapping them inside one long-fingered hand, he reached over, swiftly securing the lock on the door.

Iris, aroused by the aggression her lover was showing, glowered at him and tilted her shoulders in defiance. "You think I'm giving it up that easily, Professor? Old age's made you delusional."

"Delusional?" His hands wrapped around her shoulders tightly and he moved to push her against the bed, his mouth leaning down to bite her neck. "Hardly, Miss DeLaine—I know exactly how to make you want it, make you beg me for it. Or do you need your memory refreshed?"

"You might have been capable of that in the past, Professor," Iris growled, summoning her wiry strength to change their positions so that she was pressing her entire body against him to steer him toward the bed. "But times change, my dear genius—and the day the student surpasses the teacher is inevitable, isn't it?"

To hear Iris talking this way, taking such initiative, attempting to gain dominance, thrilled Jonathan to his core. No shrinking, submissive violet for him—aggressive, proud, incredible Iris was a much better bargain. So much spirit, so much darkness and beauty and strength. Oh, it was tempting to lie back and let her have her way with him.

Tempting, but not enough to make his pride surrender so easily. Control—fear was control, sex was control. He was in control.

This he told himself, even in the moments when his brain wavered in her kiss, when his hands went abruptly reverent before he forced them back to domineering. Tonight they fought—this was a battle. Her hands tore at his shirt, eager to bare him before her before he could attempt to expose her; his body stuttered for a moment and his hands were just the slightest bit nervous before they attacked her with all the fervor she showed him.

The path Jonathan had been forced to walk towards the bed was abruptly steered off course as his hands seized her hips, and she suddenly found herself thrown against the wall with enough force to bruise. The pain was delicious, and she craved more. Before she could throw any barbs at him to conceive such behavior, she found her wrists slammed beside her head, his knees forcing hers apart. A gasp involuntarily, quite traitorously in fact, left her lips as his bony frame was forced between her roughly parted legs. A truly wicked grin spread across his face.

"Yes, my pet, make those noises for Scarecrow. You once told me that you understood why I loved dominating you so? Well, my slave, I can only suppress that need so long. You see, I crave to dominate you, to enslave your body and your mind as my own, just as I did our first night. You remember, don't you, Iris? That night when I first planted the seeds of insanity within that simply deviant mind of yours? Do you remember it, Iris? Do you remember the way you felt as you begged me to touch you…?" Both her wrists were firmly secured within one of his long, spindly hands, leaving the other completely free to wander, "How you implored me to touch you here…?" his freed hand ghosted over her breasts, trailing a finger downward, "And especially…_here_…" another gasp pushed past her lips as his hand cupped her clothed core, "Remember it, my pet? No man had ever touched you there before, had he? No pitiful, drunken college ape had dared lay hand on your masterpiece of a body, especially not here. And none had ever created such pleasure within you, had they? No…no, they hadn't. I felt what I'd done to you Iris…such _heat_—as though you were positively _afire_ for your professor…oh, it was _such_ pleasure you granted me, knowing I had done that to you. And you begged your teacher to touch, didn't you, sweet little girl? Yes, you did…begged, pleaded…bargained when I would not do so. Such naughty things you promised me if I would only touch. My, my…I've raised such a naughty little girl." A low chuckle echoed in her ear, "And you know what happens to bad girls, little one? You know what happens? They have to be punished…and you'd like that, wouldn't you? You want your teacher to punish you, Iris?"

Iris held her lips between her teeth, trying to stifle any sounds produced from Jonathan's words. Oh, he knew exactly where to look, what to say, how to say it, to drive her crazy. She was trembling—she could feel the tight coil of exited anxiety in her belly, the way minute twitching tingled up her arms and betrayed itself in her steadily heavier breathing.

"You do," her lover grumbled, low and satisfied. "You do want your teacher to punish you. You know you deserve it, don't you, Miss DeLaine? You want to be absolved, want to feel your professor take his righteous anger out on your gorgeous body, once, twice, over and over again until you must beg him to stop, just as you will beg him to begin. You want to suffer the consequences of your misdeeds—look how shamelessly you offer yourself up for your penance," he said, rubbing two of his cupped fingers along her clothed folds, making her cry out softly. "I can feel you, Iris…your body is begging for its punishment, even if your mind is not."

"I don't deserve any punishment," Iris croaked, attempting to gain some leverage in the situation. "You don't have the authority—"

He snarled at her and pressed a bruising kiss to her mouth, thoroughly enjoying the whimper he drew out of her. He pushed her wrists harder against the wall, supporting her as she lifted her legs and wrapped them around his waist, making him groan as she ground her hips against him.

"My sweet licentious slave…" Jonathan purred, pleased. "How you want your punishment…"

"I want _you_," Iris admitted. "_Fuck_ the punishment."

His free hand latched on to one of her nipples and pinched, tugging slightly, enough to draw a grunt of half-pained pleasure from her. "If you so wish, my dear child."

She winced ever so slightly under the onslaught that was flooding pleasure through her body. Damnit, it had been far, far too long. Even though their night in his cell—the last night before her departure—had been wondrous, paradise…it had been too long. She wanted this to last into the night…even if he was the dominant one, she would welcome his domination, throw away, damn her pride as he had done for her last night. She always heard love was about making sacrifices…whoever said that must have possessed some mild intelligence, for their love play was all about making sacrifices. She could see that he understood her thoughts now…that he would all too gladly grant her desires. She would be thrashing, writhing, begging for his mercy soon enough, and she knew it. But damn it all, she wanted it.

"Jonathan…._now_." she hissed, eyes boring into his, "Do it…touch…touch me anyway you can—every way you can! Do it, please! I'm losing my mind!" she tried to rock her hips against his hands, only to permit a rather undignified whine to escape as his hand drew back.

"Losing your mind?" he replied, low and dark. "Yes—losing your mind for want of me, aren't you?"

"Yes," she sighed, digging her nails into her own hands, drawing blood.

"You want to be touched—you think that is the extent of your punishment, Iris? You think I would be so unimaginative? You disappoint me, slave," Jonathan said, leaning down and bruising the skin of her collarbone with his mouth. "Disappoint me very much…I had always thought you understood our game so much better than this. Why would I only touch you when you have been so naughty? You think I would let you off so easily, after you have been so disobedient? No; first you would have to apologize. Then your punishment would begin…and I promise, it will leave you in pieces. But you must be repentant for your sins against your professor. And so. For your apology…what shall we do, hmm? What shall I make you do? Why don't you tell me how you would like to beg for forgiveness from your Scarecrow?"

His words were melting her bones, but the lack of his touch granted her time to gather her wits enough to develop an idea to encourage him to increase the severity of her 'punishment.'

"I wouldn't beg forgiveness from you at all. You see, I'm not the least bit sorry, Professor," she replied breathily. "I'd disobey you a thousand times more, just because I can…because I don't submit to you so easily."

She felt herself slam into the wall once more, a bright blossom of pain exploding from her shoulder blades, making her yelp. Her lover thrust himself against her, hard into her pelvis and growling.

"You insolent little succubus!" Jonathan hissed, madly aroused. "You defiant, sinful temptation, you enchanting, incredible hussy! How dare you so provoke me? How dare you draw me to madness this way?"

Iris was yanked away from the wall, suddenly, and pressed backward onto her bed. A small gasp left her as Jonathan separated her wrists, one in each hand, and stretched them out to her sides. His eyes were on fire, but he seemed to have gained a little more control over himself—his hips were no longer so desperate.

"My slave, my toy—how proud you are. But have you not stripped me of my own pride far too many a time? Have you not taken advantage of my blind compassion for you, used it and turned it against me, forcing me to obey your will? Oh, oh, my dear student, my beloved Iris. You will be repaid in kind—you will beg your Master for his pleasure before this night is out." Jonathan leaned down then, crushed their lips together, treated his lady to a low groan. "You will beg your Master for forgiveness…but first…he will make sure that you are soon well and truly sorry for your behavior…"

"You can try," Iris whispered, her eyes meeting his searing gaze, her defiance not yet stripped from her, "But you will not succeed, Professor. I am not sorry for one thing I did to you—not on any of the nights we have been together. It is you who are the proud, the one who does not ever permit any sort of humiliation upon him. You expect me to beg forgiveness for that? You jest. I will not give it to you. I have nothing to be sorry for, and I won't beg forgiveness or even give regret for that which I have no need to be humble for. You can try to wring such regret from me, Professor Crane, but you will not find it within me. So help me God, I will not give it to you."

A dark chuckle was his only reaction, "God? Child, do leave such figures such as God out of this. _God_ has absolutely nothing to do with what will transpire within this room tonight and into the morning if you continue to disobey me. You forget the things I could do to you, defiant child, and so it seems I shall remind you. You say there is no regret within you? Very well, then I shall _create_ regret within you. I shall manipulate your emotions and your body and your sanity to the point where you will be _sobbing_ like a mere child, begging my forgiveness. Your wickedness from last night will be repaid in absolute full this night, Iris. And you will not leave this bed until I am absolutely finished with you, and by that time, even you will be so utterly drained that the mere thought of moving will not exist within you. In case you can't quite understand that, my dear," he added in a mocking tone that sent a bristle of indignation through her, "It means you will not be attending classes tomorrow, or the next day, or this entire week. You will remain here with me, as it should be. You will not leave your Master's bed, and by the time dawn has broken this night, you will be _begging_ for such treatment. You will implore Scarecrow to allow you to remain in our bed, alone with me. Any insolence given to your Master will result in fitting punishment, as I deem it fit."

"Now," he continued, fingers tightening to raise instant bruises upon her wrists, "Look me in the eye and say that you will do so. Agree to all that I have just instructed you to do…and, most importantly, you will address me as Master, or I will permit Scarecrow. Say it. Now."

She had been right along with him until he had questioned her comprehension. That quite tore the deal.

Executing a swift twist that Harley had showed her years ago, Iris tumbled Jonathan beneath her and quickly held him pinned—her position was decent enough for her purposes that it would be rather difficult for him to break her hold…but he was always full of surprises. He was angry at having lost his advantage and it was very clear that he'd be willing to fight for it; he was already struggling a bit, though she'd expected that. She'd have to make the most of this time.

"Listen well, _Jonathan_," Iris said in a dark voice, leaning her weight down on a few crucial points. "You may note that you are in _my_ bed, in _my _house—so feel free to leave off the bit about this being my Master's bed. Value the purported intelligence of your former student enough to assume that she will be able to keep up with everything you say…your lofty condescension holds no appeal to me, my crow. And I am indeed your _former_ student—or have you forgotten? You are no longer my Professor…you are not my keeper, you are not my god. You are my _equal_, Crane, and I'll not soon let you forget it, no matter how it stings your pride. Sobbing like a child, begging your forgiveness, imploring you to _allow_ me not to leave this bed?" Her dark mouth twisted in a smirk that spoke of cruelty as she paused for a moment, taking in the snarling and thrashing of her lover. "Where would all my pretty defiance be then, dear crow? What would I have to wear to attract an arrogant beast like you, my sweet one, if I did not have such a spirit about me? And in any event—I've never begged you to let me stay. If tonight's events are any indication, you are the one who cannot seem to stay away. Are we quite clear, Jonathan?"

Iris DeLaine was not a delicate flower, and Jonathan Crane was not one to treat her as such. That being said, he still made the attempt, on occasion and only when it was appropriate, to treat her as gently as he could possibly. Such rules didn't really apply when they were in the wild heat of passion that turned both into frantic beings, desperate to delve into the whirlpool of near-animalistic love play. But whenever they were not…he tried to be compassionate, at least a bit, in his touches and caresses.

However, his limits had been pushed one too many times within the course of this past hour. She was making him absolutely insane, not only with arousal, but with the determination to strip her utterly of her pride. There would be absolutely no place for it in their bed tonight, just as his pride had been given no standing on previous nights. Her words were little more than a challenge…and he had _never_ backed down from a challenge. Yes, she had a point, as always, that he could not stay away from her. But….neither could she. After all, it was she who had agreed to always return to him, to forever be at his side from hence worth; it was she who had come to him not once, but twice. Each time, her obedience was all but an immediate reaction. She always returned to him.

She thought _he_ was the only one who couldn't stay away? Oh, this temperamental minx would learn her lesson tonight and learn it well!

As low of a blow as it was, he needed the upper hand in the situation, and found it by applying force to his knee between her thighs. Not enough to cause pain, but certainly enough, judging by the gasp that left her lips and the slackening grip on his wrists, to give him the momentary distraction he needed to seize control again.

He was on her in seconds, body slamming her hips into the bed, located just above her hips to prevent any swiveling that might permit her to have the upper hand again. Remembering the details of the previous night all too well, he smirked coldly, hand tugging the belt from around his pants smoothly and, with a clever motion, fastening her wrists together. But he knew the depths of her cleverness, and would not take chances. She soon found her wrists tied together with his belt, firmly attached to the headboard. Her chest rose and fell, shock clearly on her face.

"Now, then…that's much better, isn't it?" he spoke smoothly, with a cold smile on his face that was not unlike that which he wore as the Scarecrow, "Now," he glided off the bed, circling around, examining her like a great vulture before seizing its prey. His smile only widened as she thrashed and snarled and fought against her restraints, all to no avail, "No, please…don't stop, little pet. Do continue….as you said, your defiance enthralls me, fills me with adoration for your spirit. I promised I would not chain you down, but your disobedience has greatly displeased your Master, and you will be punished for it. You will be punished most dearly. And you _will_ address me as Master, or the punishment that you will suffer will be far worse than even your conniving mind could ever comprehend. Say it, and say it _now_."

Oh, how could he restore her from anger to need so quickly? That smirking, foul, low-down, scheming, cunning, manipulative, clever, ingenious, horrible-wonderful bastard! Iris thrashed once more, if only to express her frustration. How did he remember such a thing as a belt at a time like this? She could feel her traitor body responding—just from her new position and the implications of her predator's gaze—oh, he knew not what he did to her.

Finally exhausted from her fruitlessly struggle, Iris slumped back on her bed, dangling from her wrists, panting and snarling at the man who smirked down at her.

"Say it."

"I will not." She almost gasped as his hand groped at her core, feeling against her. His expression grew smugger.

"Your body begs me to use you. But I will not until you _say it_. I will leave you here, now, aching and desperate as you are."

"You don't have the will—ah!" A rough fondle.

"Oh, I have the will, my fiery slave. And I will take you to the brink and I will leave you there. Now, _say it_, before I lose my patience with you entirely."

Iris lay on the bed, eyes defiant and enraged, chest heaving with her uneven breaths even as her hips helplessly writhed against his iron-firm hand.

"…Master," her voice came from behind her gritted teeth. Jonathan had trouble swallowing down his groan at the word, at the wrathful tone she used—oh, she was angry and she wanted it and she didn't want him to know she wanted it. He felt his face twist in satisfaction, his body responding to her defeated defiance.

"Yes, you do want this so badly. Look how your sweet body responds to me." He groped her again, idly, if only illustrating the point of his control over the situation, and Iris almost (but not quite) restrained her whimper. "Can't you feel how desperate you are? How you're aching for this? If you did not need to be restrained, I would force you to feel for yourself. But alas—" and he theatrically sighed, "you disobeyed your Master too much and find yourself helpless now. What shall I do with you, to show you the consequences of your actions?"

She didn't care, she didn't care, just as long as he did something—anything! Iris gnawed her lower lip and glared at her professor, daring his every thought.

"You're going to apologize, Iris. You're going to tell your Master how much you pray he will forgive you for taking advantage of him…how much you wish there was something you could offer to please him, to bring him to forgive you your arrogance. You're going to apologize…_now_."

Iris clenched her teeth shut and stared at the ceiling, trying desperately to ignore that hand on her…those fingers…slipping under the tiny amount of fabric covering her…

She screamed out loud at his touch, hips bucking like a piston against his hand, shocked and suddenly desperate…but oh, she wouldn't say it…wouldn't flatter him that way…wouldn't…

He began to move his hand away.

"God DAMN you!" she just about lost herself entirely, and would be quite lucky if her outburst did not reach other ears, "Damn, damn, _damn_ you! I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Master. I seek forgiveness, pray that you will be benevolent and compassionate to your slave! She has committed a great wrong against her teacher, her Master, and she must be punished. But please, Master, be compassionate! Was she not kind to you in the end? Did she not swear to you her eternal, unending allegiance from this day forward? Master, please…take such things into consideration when punishing your slave. She seeks your pardon, prays for it….she will beg for it if Master so deems it needed, but be kind and gentle to her! She must be corrected, stripped of her pride as she so swiftly did to you…but be kind to her at least a little. Please, Master…_please_…"

There it was….those sweet and lovely pleas that he would eagerly drain from her lips and body entirely before this night was done. His expression the pure definition of smugness, Crane leaned idly closer to her, his hand dancing lazily upon her thigh, smirking as her limb twitched in response, "Your Master is pleased with his slave's apologies….so much so that perhaps her words will be taken into consideration. You abandoned your Master, Iris… but you were good to him, you have returned to him in the end…perhaps your Master will consider doing the same for you….under one condition. Should you fail this simple test, ignore your Master's request, I shall leave you upon the very brink of ecstasy without release, do you understand?"

A mute nod was her response. Taking it for what it was, Crane's fingers traced the lining of her shorts, over the sensitized skin of her lower abdomen, "You will tell Master how much you need him. Tell him who is creating this maddening ache within you, little slave…who is numbing your senses entirely, leaving only the desperate need to be touched…tell me, Iris. Tell Master how desperately you crave this…how needy my mere words a few simple touches have made you. Tell me, or I will become displeased. Now."

Iris thought to clench her jaw closed but his light caresses were too much for her. She let out a strange snarling whimper, not all of her pride quite out of her yet and begrudgingly opened her mouth, letting her words do as they would. They stung in her mouth, but she was almost too far gone to care.

"You, my Master, you, Jonathan Crane—it is you who is making your slave desperate. You control her body, her mind. You destroy her intellect, strip her of her pride, make her beg…beg for mercy from her merciful Master. My Master, you are the one who makes her ache…you cause her body to sing for you, helpless, desperate. Your slave needs you, Master; your slave is nothing without you, cannot be satisfied without you. Your slave craves your approval as she craves your touch and your words. Master, you bring your slave to desperation, to pleading from the softest touch of your hand, from the briefest word from your mouth. Your slave cannot tell how needy her Master makes her, how weak and openly desperate she is for him, for his use alone. Pity your slave, Master—show her she pleases you with her desperation? She was bad, she was filthy and she disobeyed but please…please tell her you are pleased with her? Please tell her she is your only slave, that you have not brought others to share her hallowed position to serve you?"

Crane said nothing for a long moment, his hands feather-light and barely touching her skin, even as she twitched beneath him, panting. A soft whine escaped her throat and he smirked once more.

"You are the only slave of your Master."

"Oh, thank you…thank you, my beloved, my good and merciful Master. I would be your only slave—I would serve no one but you, my Master. I would would not dream to beg for a touch from any hand but yours! Your slave aches for such words, Master—she begs for them, now, with her desperate mouth. You cause your slave pain she willingly endures, Master…she begs for more of this pain, the agony from your touches that you administer to tease your slave, your toy, your unworthy student. Please let your slave thank you; please tell her how she may repay this great kindness that her benevolent Master grants his unworthy toy? Demand satisfaction from your slave, demand that you are served by her…she wants to serve you, Master. Let her serve you, please…"

"And just how does the slave intend to serve the Master?" he asked, his expression growing in smugness.

"She will do anything…" Iris croaked, body panting, hanging limp in her restraints. Her struggling, her explosion of anger, her brutal and wrenching submission had taken their toll on her—she felt herself shaking, her throat parched. Her voice sounded defeated, even to her. "Anything her Master asks."

She wanted to hang her head and sleep, hang her head and die—and yet she was still so _his _that it bit into her bones to know it. Their time together had never been this intense, never this combative; oh, they played their little games, they teased and taunted, but once one or the other of them had gained the upper hand, the game was decided. Tonight, though…tonight they bit and scratched and it had excited to the extent that the submissive partner would be torn apart completely. Iris was being wrenched apart, her body in pain and desperate for pleasure, wrists bleeding from her thrashing against the bet, her body dry and dead inside but so hot and soaked below…

It was almost beyond arousal. It was rebirth, and she was enduring the pain and ecstasy of both the mother and the infant in the agonizing trial.

"Anything her Master asks," Iris creaked once more, her head bent to avoid Jonathan's eyes.

There was something in her eyes…the way she talked….the way her body was slumping yet still tugging against the restraints…his dark eyes followed the path of the crimson liquid seeping down her arms from her wrists, where the belt had ripped and rubbed the skin raw. Her lips were dry and cracked, there was a dullness yet unmistakable arousal in her eyes; her skin was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, creating soft dampness on her clothing. The need that radiated from every inch of her body was unmistakable…so…dark…

He had never seen anything so incredibly erotic in his life.

A bit of his dominance faded away from him, not much, but enough to allow droplets of compassion to seep in. He sat down beside her strung-up figure on the bed. A long hand reached out, brushing away some damp strands of hair from her neck and ear. "Listen to me, Iris….listen to my voice….the voice of your Master. Listen to the one who conceived your insanity, who cared for you all those times. You remember, don't you? You remember when those animals would humiliate you, injure you…and who do you always come back to? Your teacher, your professor…because you knew he would tend to your wounds, clean you, heal your pain every time. Who defended you in Arkham, against all those questions, those imbeciles prying into your life when they had no business doing so? Who was that, Iris?"

"You…" she whispered, voice cracked and weak.

"That's right, my sweet, I did. Why? Because you are mine, sweet Iris. I have never, ever in my life wanted, needed, desired, and craved someone as much as I do now. I need you as deeply as I need to breathe the air to sustain life inside this body of mine, this body which has given you so much pleasure time and time and time again. I know it hurts right now, Iris…and it's going to hurt. But our first time hurt too, didn't it? When you permitted me inside your virgin body and there was one brief moment of pain? There will be pain now, my love….but it will be yet another brief moment…"

His mouth was on her neck, pressing to that sensitive vein that sent quakes through her body. His breath was hot in her ear.

"One brief glimmer of pain, my Iris…and I will remake you. I will spend this entire night remaking you, breaking you apart to free your spirit from this prison which they have so cruelly chained you within. You will be exhausted, my darling, I know it…but Master will be here….Master will hold you, tend to you as long as you need him. I will not let you go, ever again, my lover, my angel…my Iris. Let me remake you….let me give birth to your true, free spirit…"

"Cut me open, Jonathan," Iris whispered, her body singing sharp as her heart raced, full of joy and love, suddenly happier than she had ever been. "Rip their lies out of me by the roots. Drain all the infections…make me real, Jonathan. Make me free."

"Yes, Iris," he said, tracing her lips with his thumb. "Yes…my Iris."

"Your slave of love," Iris corrected, her eyes still full of lust and pain as she spread her legs. "Break the chains, Master. Crumble it to dust. Free your slave—make her yours, your consort, your concubine. Do it, Jonathan."

He advanced on her, lifted above her on his knees as he straddled her and literally tore the fabric of her shorts, ripped her clothes off, leaving her damp shirt on.

"Remake me," she whispered hoarsely. "Recreate me. Iris DeLaine is dead."

"Iris DeLaine will be reborn, my slave," Jonathan murmured. Iris whimpered for him, twitched her hips up to beg with her body as his free hand undid his flies. "I will bring her back to life, reform her to be as she should have always been: wild, beautiful, free."

He slid inside her, hot and needy himself, wasting no time in establishing a rhythm to speed them to the edge, to shatter the first wall of the evening.

"Fix me, Master. Make me free—make me your Mistress…cut away the rot, my love, let me breathe your fresh air!"

"My slave…my Mistress…my Iris…"

Tears were pouring down her face, leaving cold, wet stains down her face as he continued thrusting, pressing, riding her. Her wrists were being rubbed even rawer with the hard, fast movements, the blood pouring down hot and wet on her arms. Her sobs were hoarse, desperate.

"Iris…"

"Master, please…Master, I…."

"Tell me, Iris, love…tell me…"

She could barely breathe, let alone think to say things properly, "Master…please…it hurts…my…my hands. Please, Master, it hurts so, so much….please…please, I'm bleeding. Master, please, _please_, I'll do anything….anything you want, I swear it, but please have mercy…it hurts so much! Please, Master don't hurt me…..I beg you, don't hurt me….and it hurts…so much…."

Crane paused, looking over at her wrists for a long, long moment. The blood had stained her lower arms clear to the elbows. It looked as though she were wearing red silk gloves.

She had begged him to cut her, hurt her….but not like this…not even she had harmed him that badly. Not even she had _ever_ made him bleed so much….

Wordlessly, Jonathan lifted his hands to the headboard and slowly undid the belt, holding each of Iris' wrists gently in his hands, a little twinge of guilt twisting in him as he observed how deeply the leather had torn into her, how pathetically she was thanking him for release from her torment.

"Thank you, Master, you are so kind to your slave, so good to free her from her pain, so good to give her relief…" He laid each bloody arm by her side and kissed her begging mouth, hips rocking into and against her once again.

"Show your Master your gratitude, sweet one…show him how thankful you are—how desperate your Master makes you."

"How, Master, how? Tell your slave and she will do it," Iris gasped beneath him, half-exhausted and filled with relief that her arms were no longer being so viciously torn. Jonathan's rhythm quickened, his thrusts soundly attacking that profoundly sensitive spot inside his lover—Iris whimpered aloud and lifted her hips to meet him.

"Good—good. You eagerly accept your Master's dominance, my dear slave. Show your Master how pleasured you are by his lust, by his control of you. Come for your Master, Iris. Come to me, my beauty…come to me, my fine one."

And, astoundingly, it actually was as easy as that. The intensity of his thrusts, finally drawing pleasure out of her pain-wracked body, the relief of her arms against cool linen, the demand that she experience the pinnacle of human delight from this man that was tearing her apart, only to recreate her…it abruptly overwhelmed her, and Iris found herself shrieking to the ceiling.

"_Jonathan!_"

"_Iris!_" He hadn't intended to be forced over the edge, but the utter relief and ecstasy in his dear love's voice, the constricting of her muscles as she held him so tight, the sight of her battered, bloody, beautifully brave body caused him to lose himself completely. He grunted her name into her shoulder, his body writhing in his pleasure.

Strength all but gone, he barely managed to avoid collapsing on top of the woman beneath him. She shed no tears, but her breath came in sobs—once he had recovered himself a little, he rose to go to the bathroom.

"Don't leave," Iris whispered urgently, unable to reach out to restrain him.

"I will not, Iris. I'm going to get something for your wrists." He thought over his words earlier, that she would beg not to be forced from his bed—this was something of a twist, but even still, he found himself incapable of deriving too much pleasure or amusement from it. Perhaps it was the sight of her blood…if anyone else had so torn her, he would have unhesitatingly broken the perpetrator's neck.

But Jonathan knew he could heal her, could undo any scar he put on her…and now, the time had arrived to do just that.

Iris was unspeakably beautiful, he noticed as he returned with a soft, wet cloth. She lay on her bed, mostly naked, obviously feeling no shame at being exposed. Exhausted, in agony, still reeling and twitching a bit from her pleasure, she looked up at him beneath sweaty bangs, her blue eye holding an expression he found he could not quite identify.

He slowly began to mop up her blood, listening to her dry sobs, seemingly never-ending in supply.

"One brief glimmer of pain…" Iris croaked, her throat rubbed dry and raw. "You will hold me, won't you?"

"I will," he said, quietly cleaning her skin. Now, he could rebuild.


	30. The Cards Revealed

**A/N: This is the final chapter of "Descent into Darkness". I would like to thank all of my readers for their patience and continued support. Also, a great deal of thanks and credit to my dear friend Charlotte A. Cavatica. Quite of the bit of the content in this story owes its existence to her creativity and generosity.**

**Thanks to you all once again. I look forward to seeing you in the future - and yes, a sequel is forthcoming. We are far from finished! **

**Until next time!**

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* * *

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"_Our life is made by the death of others."_

_~ Leonardo de Vinci_

Chapter 30: The Cards Revealed

Iris winced ever so slightly as the alcohol cloths rubbed her skin, gently as possible. She vaguely heard his whispers to relax, that the pain would pass within soon time. Her mind was reeling from all that had just transpired…she had indeed endured what nearly all women brought upon themselves in childbirth.

She had felt the unbearable agony that came upon the mother, as their body, inside and out was ripped apart, blood coming in no small amount from their bodies.

The pain, the suffering…all of it cast upon her like a sentence of lashes from a cat-o-nine-tails. The only option available was to scream and shriek and beg for it to be over when the mind knew such a wish would never be granted until Fate deemed it so.

And the feeling of being covered in blood, being forced out into a new light that blinded with the fierceness of the light now surrounding her, and the soft warmth that caressed—pain and pleasure all jumbled mingled until the distinctions were impossible to make…

This was the infant. This was the feeling of being brought into a new world…a brand new world without any true knowledge of where you were, how and why you were brought to this place in this moment.

And more importantly…you had absolutely no idea who you were.

She had never felt so dead, and so alive all at once.

"Iris…? Iris?"

Was this what an infant heard as it was called into this world? Its name being spoken….with such reverence…such love and compassion…was that was this was like? To be held against a warm, loving chest, arms holding it close to the steady murmur of a beating heart? To have fingers stroking the head, slow and calm…to have a voice murmuring the name in its ear?

She had no memory of ever being held like this—not by mother or father. This should have been….incredibly comforting…but she had no idea of how to react to it. Should she smile and return the embrace; curl into it in silence and soak up the comfort radiating from the body she was held against? Should she merely remain still, frozen in this position and allow him to do as he pleased? Was she to be submissive while he continued to secure his dominance?

He hadn't ever held her like this…like he was holding his own child. This was so confusing…so…

She felt something cold and wet running down her face. She didn't need to look to know she was crying. Not the dry sobs that she had been emitting previously, but broken, frigid tears all the same. She felt hollow and empty, yet innocent and frightened…she had truly been reborn…and it hurt worse than death itself.

"Master…" the name was a broken murmur that barely forced its way past her lips. She felt his head turn to look at her expectantly, waiting for her to continue, to say something, anything. But she could not.

She was merely an infant. And infants did not know how to speak.

Jonathan pressed a soft kiss to the palm of his lover's hand, slowly wrapping her wounds in gauze. She was silent, crying, looking horrified and ashamed and lost. His determination wavered frantically in one moment—had it been too much? Had she truly been hurt, hurt beyond repair…by him?

He steeled his heart. Iris was strong, stronger than anyone he'd ever known, stronger, certainly, than he himself. He would heal her, he would protect her, he would do whatever he could to repair the damage done to her, by the world, by him, by herself. He could not doubt her strength now, when she would need it most.

He finished one wrist and moved to the other, kissing her temple and her cold tears gently, trying to show her affection and love, compassion for her pain and fear. Jonathan had never dreamed that he would ever choose to do anything of the kind…but the pains of his Iris were obviously nothing less than torturous, and he knew torture needed understanding, support, comfort.

"I love you, Iris," he whispered, the roll of gauze covering the sticky blood and torn skin of his lady's arms. "I do not say it often…I trust you enough to know already. It hurt, didn't it? It hurt you too much, my dear one…it was too much to endure for any simple person. And yet you endure so much, my brave student. I caused you that pain because it was necessary; I cannot rescue you so easily. I cannot cure you without tearing out the infection. Your pale skin has been marred for this cause," he paused to kiss the dressing as he tied off the knot, slowly wrapping his arms around her to hold her, leaning her weight against him. "Your lovely body bleeds, and I mourn it even as I celebrate your release, my love. I will teach you, I will protect you, I will heal and hold you until you tell me to stop..."

He leaned her back onto her bed, away from the stains of her blood and carefully removed her shirt. "It hurts now, sweet one. It will hurt—not more than it does in this moment, but it will still hurt, as you restore yourself. Your body and your soul are healing, my dear Iris, and it is painful to heal…but I will not leave you until it is done." He rose to his feet, slowly. "I will return in a moment."

Iris couldn't seem to let her body relax—she lay stiff, cold, shaking on the sheets, completely exposed, tears still flowing free. When was the last time she cried? She didn't cry, couldn't cry…and yet these were the tears of a newborn, silent for her because her throat would not work to cry out.

When Jonathan came back, he had a cup of water. He fed her a tiny bit at the time, and initially her body tried to retch at the unfamiliar sensation. Soon, however, she was able to refresh herself, and the hydration helped her muscles to stop clenching so tightly. Her lover came and laid down beside her, her body cradled in his arms as her head reclined on his chest, exhausted and heavy.

"You love me…?" she whispered. Her voice was broken and hoarse, but the hydration had soothed the coarseness of her throat, "You love me, Master?"

"You know I do, Iris," he said softly into her damp hair, "You know I do, and you must continue to believe it and hold it in your heart, for you know I will not say it often. I cannot become something that even remotely resembles some love-struck teenage boy. I may not say the words often, Iris…but you will know it in my touch, the way I look at you everyday…I won't say it every second of every day, and you wouldn't want that, would you? That would be the very embodiment of all you despise; would you have your lover insult your spirit and intelligence by bestowing such idiocies upon you?"

"No, Master…" she whispered, "Never…"

"Then what really troubles you, my broken one?"

She swallowed slightly, "I…I don't know…I feel slightly delirious…I'm not sure what's come over me…"

"It's the pain, Iris…your body is reacting to the pain and the need to be healed. Rest…it will pass soon enough."

"But…I wish I could rest, Master…but the truth is, I'm not tired. My body is, and to an extent my mind is…but if I allow myself to sleep, I won't be able to feel you. I won't feel your arms around me, hear the steady beating of your heart, feel your breathe on my hair…feel and soak up the comfort that can only be given to me through feeling you close to me…I don't want to sleep…I don't want to lose that."

"You won't lose it, Iris," he said softly, fingers sliding up her shoulder and nesting within her damp strands of black hair, "You may not feel it directly, but it will be here, waiting for you to awaken. I won't let you out of this bed for the rest of the week, Iris. You may heal quickly and be prepared to return, but I can't allow that. You will stay here, with me, until I say otherwise. Don't protest or anything of the like, do you understand? Stay here, with your Master, Iris…and your Master will tend to your needs. He will hold you this night as you sleep, and come morning light he will treat your wounds and bathe you, to clean them further. And when they cause you pain, your Master will hold you and whisper in your ear, telling you there is nothing to be afraid of, nor is there a need to feel pain. This pain will pass, and your Master will heal it, for however long it takes. I won't let you suffer any longer than you absolutely must, Iris. And should any man even think about causing my child pain, they will suffer a fate far worse than death, at the hands of the Scarecrow."

Iris looked up at him, tears slipping down her face, slower than before, "Master…"

"What is it, child?" he knew she needed to rest, but he couldn't force her completely to succumb to the exhaustion that racked every fiber of her being, that radiated from her entirely and completely. She would fall into blissful sleep when she needed to, when she had said all that needed to be said.

"I love you…I'm so…so deeply, madly, insanely in love with you…"

He felt something inside of him tremble at her words, something dark and deep which had, once, attempted to rise to the surface, only to be fired back down, down, deep into the abyss, from where it had not stirred in decades. His throat ached, as if he suppressed a scream—his hands clasped the woman-child in his arms to him and his voice was shaky when he spoke.

"Say it again."

"I am in love with you…mad, insane with love for you…I'm in love with you, I love you, love you…" He could hear sleep tinting her voice, could feel her weight growing limper and limper in his arms, but he implored her again, half-begging himself.

"Again."

"…love you, I love you, Master…Jonathan…" She was gone with the breath of the last syllable, blue eye closed softly, exhaustion writ across her beautiful features as she drowned in the sleep she desperately needed.

Crane cradled her against him, his fingertips gently touching her neck so that he could feel her pulse, could have tangible evidence that the angel in his arms lived and breathed. He had…no one had ever…or if they had, it had been so long.

Iris DeLaine loved him, was in love with him. He'd always suspected, always believed she'd admired him, respected him, lusted for him, cared for him, challenged him, and (perhaps most importantly) was not afraid of him. But to hear the words, as strange and desirable to him as any incantation, as melodic and haunting as any earthly sound, stirred his soul, brought out in him the child she had reduced him to just the previous night, the desperate and lost babe who begged for but a scrap of affection, a hint of praise and care. He held her close as she slept, disbelieving and transported by her confession to him.

Iris DeLaine was his.

His lover, his Mistress…his slave, his equal…his student…his and only his.

No other man would ever lay hands upon her now. He had taken every last chain this miserable society had ever tried to suffocate, to kill her with…he had taken those constraints that held within the body of a young girl, molded by society's forceful hands, the power, the brilliance, and the beautiful insanity of the fiery vixen she was meant to be. But no more.

He had killed Iris DeLaine, then he had given her life once again.

To take life and give it back…it was a heady tonic, an awe-inspiring swell of power that he had taken into his own hands, and behold the result. She was perfection…beauty, genius, and insanity all in one.

And she was his.

Bringing her closer to him, to hold her to his heart, he allowed one last whisper to drift through her ears, then take to the night and disappear into the heavens.

"I am in love with you, Iris DeLaine…My sweet…beautifully insane…Mistress of Fear."

* * *

She was not entirely certain when she had fallen asleep. All she could say, with some small certainty or not, was she had faded from consciousness with a last promise of love—true and utterly mad love—to her Jonathan.

_Jonathan_.

Her eyes opened.

There he was, lying beside her upon simple sheets stained dark with her blood—blood she had shed for him, to ensure that hated infection of her past was finally removed from her body.

Blood shed to set her mind, her heart, and her very soul free forever.

Free to be Iris DeLaine.

Free to be with Jonathan.

But she was not free yet.

Slowly, to ensure that she would not awaken him, she made to slip out of his hold. And yet, her eyes strayed, falling back to examine him. She knew this body—she knew it as though it were her own. And yet, she could never grow tired of looking at it.

His chest rose and fell, lungs drawing in slow and deliberate breaths. Warm skin wrapped around thin, tight muscles. His head lay at an angle on the pillows, one hand lying mere inches away from where it had been set upon her head.

Smiling quietly, she leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, then over the slope of his brow, down to the bridge of his nose, and finally to those thin, warm lips.

"I love you…" she whispered before slipping out of bed.

She would be back.

But one last task still remained.

* * *

Iris went downstairs, past the living room, down the winding staircase, feeling the temperature drop steadily, but not horribly. If anything, it was a refreshing lack of temperature. Her body still felt warm—a little too warm—it was a common issue when she first awakened after making love.

She smiled to herself.

Making love…that sounded so _lovely_. She was simply going to have to do this more often.

There really was something deeper to _making love_ when you compared it to simply having _sex_. She wasn't entirely sure what it was…or why it felt so _incredible_.

All she knew was just how _alive_ she felt right now…because of him.

Finally, she reached that room, the one that had taken her childhood away from her...the one that, at one time, it seemed would destroy her and continue shattering her body, spirit, and mind until there was utterly nothing left of her but a hollowed, barren shell.

Now she knew better.

This room had destroyed her, but while it was crushing her youth and childhood, it was preparing her for the future. It had prepared her to meet Jonathan Crane and to fall in love with him. It had prepared her for Arkham Asylum, to meet Arnold and Scarface, Harvey, Pamela and Harleen, Edward and Waylon, Joan Leland….

It had prepared her for her _real_ family.

Maria seemed barely conscious when Iris came into the room. It wasn't entirely surprising; two years of taking anatomy classes at the university (and being top of her class in them) had taught Iris well—specifically, how to use a knife as large and deadly as that which had been used to strike her mother mere hours ago and carve around nearly all internal organs, thus preventing serious injury. The pain had to have been positively agonizing for her mother, but it wouldn't kill her.

Yet.

* * *

Her eyes slowly, weakly rose up to see her daughter standing before her. It was far too much an effort for her to physically raise her head.

"Glad you're awake, Mommy," Iris said softly, kneeling down before her. The black leather rubbed quietly together as she sank down on the balls of her heeled boots, "Because I have some very important news for you."

There it was. That dawning moment of beatific understanding…the moment in everyone's life when they realized they were breathing their last breath…every passing second could well be their last, but that particular second in which all ended—the very second in which they would breathe their last, hear the last sounds they would ever hear, think their last thoughts, shed a last, final tear…that was unknown entirely. All one could do was wish and pray and beg and plead that this second was not their last.

It was a beautiful, wondrous sight.

"I would say parting is such….sweet sorrow, I really would…if I could. But truth be told, it's only sweet."

Maria's eyes widened slightly as Iris straightened back up. Within her hands was grasped a long scythe. Her eyes were calm, perhaps even utterly blank. And yet they burned. Burned with a hunger that did not belong solely to her—a craving that was not that of a human being. It was a hunger she had only felt once before, and never allowed herself to fully acknowledge or embrace.

But it was different now. Now she understood. Now she was prepared to accept it—for _it_ was a part of her, and always had been. This darkness that had lingered in the far reaches of her mind, of her very soul for so long, but only now was she prepared to reach out for it. Just like her scars, it was patient. And even still it remained patient, perhaps solely because it knew the days of hiding away, of being locked away like an animal, were finally coming to a long-awaited end.

"I finally understand, Mother." she whispered, "I understand why it was necessary for me to endure what I did at your hands. It made me who I am today…and for that, I suppose I give you thanks. Truly…I am grateful." Her lips drew closer to the left ear, a single finger carefully nudging the black hair, heavy with matted blood, to the side, permitting her last words to be heard.

"Rest assured, Mother," Iris breathed, "It will not take me too long to forget."

A silver glint of the scythe blade gleamed in the dimmed light.

A soft _hiss_ as the blade cut through the air.

A spray of crimson blood spilled through the air, spraying neatly onto black leather-clad skin.

A quiet shuddering gasp as her mother breathed her last.

And then all was silent.

* * *

The silence stretched on for near an eternity. She did not move, barely even allowed herself to breathe. Her eyes were closed, the rest of her senses wholly devoted to sensation—the silence hanging heavy over her ears; the chill of the air throughout the cellar. The smell of concrete mingled with the acidic scent of dried and newly spilt blood lingered in the air, soon to be replaced by the rancid stench of death and decay. Across her face, she could feel the light kiss of a fine, misted spatter; heavier, thicker streams ran lazily down her arms and hands, each falling to the floor with a soft, nearly inaudible _plink!_

Iris slowly opened her eyes, feeling a single droplet fall from her brow, splattering across her cheek into a dozen more. She did not spare the corpse another glance, instead turning to face the wall. In nearly every mirror, her reflection was identical—black attire a sharp contrast to her pale skin; blood spatter across her face and upper body. She almost looked innocent, almost looked to be an innocent bystander caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But there was one mirror that told a different story.

It was a grand piece, perhaps the most impressive and distinguished of the lot. Vague memories recalled it being purchased at an antique store once upon a time, but she could not, did not recall the reason. Her attention was not for meaningless events of the past, but for the reflection she witnessed before her now—this embodiment of her future…and a not-so-distant memory of her past.

She allowed herself the time to examine this new reflection—a reflection of a being she had not seen for years, had never allowed herself to look upon so intently. It was the body of a woman, her skin pale, nearly crystalline in appearance. Her figure was equipped with tight, lean muscles, yet still possessed the necessary curves to deem her undeniably female. Every inch of pale skin was sharply interrupted by black streaks—almost like that of a tiger, yet they were not so. And the way she moved forward, every step a direct mimic of Iris', was not the careful, deliberate step of a tiger. Her body swayed with the grace and beauty of a cobra, raised and poised, prepared to strike at any moment. Her stride was confident, bold and determined, not Iris' cautious, fearful steps. She bore little clothing—mere strips of black covering the most intimate parts of her toned body were all that preserved her modesty.

A cascade of ebony tumbled down to the small of her back, with a few curls swirling across her face. It was not a face that presented "human" aspects, not in its entirety. There was a distinct brow and nose, leading down to a pair of black lips—dark as her hair. Each cheek bore yet another streak of black, both drawing attention to her eyes—if they could be called such. They held no pupil, no iris, nothing of the like. They were only empty, hollow sockets, each as black as the clearest night sky.

Her lips would never move. Her brow would never lift, not even the smallest inch. Her eyes would never hold emotion or even blink. This face was naught but a mask—perhaps a mask to hide a grotesque distortion that lay beneath, never to be uncovered. More likely, this was her face and would always be so. There would never be a drop of emotion from her face, just as there never had been. Like the serpent, to know her thoughts was to wait for her actions.

Iris knew just how few people survived _her_ actions. She had seen it with her own eyes—seen it as though through a fogged window, watching this distorted reflection of her own soul, this being born from her rage, her hatred that could never be fully expressed…until now.

Her hand lifted, touching the cold glass. The pale, elongated fingers of the other met her touch, and for a moment Iris believed the icy chill running through her senses to be that of cold-blooded flesh, not mere reflective glass. Their eyes met, and though she could not see them, she knew the other's attention was all for her. It always had been.

"Megaera." Once the name had seemed a curse, an ominous whisper to never be spoken aloud; now it seemed a whisper of redemption.

The other was silent for the briefest moment, and when she finally spoke, it was that familiar rasp, a cold hiss that barely maintained any traces of femininity. Yet Iris could hear the smile—gratified, pleased, triumphant at last—wrapped around each word.

"_**Welcome home**_."


	31. UPDATE PLEASE READ!

**UPDATE NOTICE – PLEASE READ!**

I know it's been a long, long time since I posted the final chapter of "Descent into Darkness", and I wish to thank all of you who have been patiently waiting for the sequel story I promised. It is in the works but unfortunately has to take a lesser priority to both other stories I'm working on, as well as my hectic schedule.

I do want to direct everyone's attention to some changes I have made on this story. Comments I received from my reviewers and other such ideas have been taken into serious consideration and were thus applied to several chapters of the story. I realize that 30 chapters is a lot to re-read, but if you have the time to do so, I would very much appreciate it so as to get a better feel for what people think of the revised version of events. As a courtesy to my readers, I do want to advise that these changes will hold over to the sequel, and if you do not re-read the story you will probably be highly confused.

Thank you all again for your patience and your time. I look forward to any thoughts you might have, which you are welcome to send to me via private messages or just a review on this "31st" chapter. Thank you!

Regards,

Vytina


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